LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE 
WALLENSTEIN'S    CAMP 

THE    PICCOLOMINI 
DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN 

BY 

FRIEDRICK    SCHILLER 

Volume   I 

Hfibrarp  etittton 


NEW  YORK: 

C^e  pwblfetyerg  $late  Renting  Ca 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Lovts  AND  INTRIGUE 5 

WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP 113 

THE  PICCOLOMINI .  155 

THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN             .....  276 


2087909 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

A  TRAGEDY. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

PRESIDENT  VON   WAITER,  Prime  MILLER,  the    Town  Musician,  and 

Minister  in  the  Court  of  a  German  Teacher  of  Music. 

Prince.  MRS.  MILLER,  his  wife. 

FERDINAND,  his  son;  a  Major  in  the  LOUISA,  the  daughter  of  Miller,  in 

Army ;  inlove  with  Louisa  Miller.  love  with  Ferdinand. 

BARON  VON  KALB,  Court.  Marshal  LADYMiLFORD,</te  Prince's  Mistress. 

(or  Chamberlain).  SOPHY,  attendant  on  Lady  Milford. 

WOKM,  Private  Secretary  to  the  Pres-  An  old    Valet  in  the  service  of  the 

ideal.  Prince. 

Officers,  Attendants,  etc. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 
MILLER — MRS.  MILLEB. 

MILLER  (walking  quickly  up  and  down  the  room). 
Once  for  all !  The  affair  is  becoming  serious.  My 
daughter  and  the  baron  will  soon  be  the  town-talk  —  my 
house  lose  its  character  —  the  president  will  get  wind  of 
it,  and  —  the  short  and  long  of  the  matter  is,  I'll  show 
the  younker  the  door. 

MRS.  MILL.  You  did  not  entice  him  to  your  house  — 
did  not  thrust  your  daughter  upon  him ! 

MILL.  Didn't  entice  him  to  my  house  —  didn't  thrust 
the  girl  upon  him!  Who'll  believe  me?  I  was  master 
of  my  own  house.  I  ought  to  have  taken  more  care  of 
rny  daughter.  I  should  have  bundled  the  major  out  at 
once,  or  have  gone  straight  to  his  excellency,  his  papa, 
and  disclosed  all.  The  young  baron  will  get  off  merely 


6  LOVE  AND  INTRIGUE. 

with  a  snubbing,  I  know  that  well  enough,  and  all  the 
blame  will  fall  upon  the  fiddler. 

MBS.  MILL,  (sipping  her  coffee).  Pooh !  nonsense ! 
How  can  it  fall  upon  you?  What  have  people  to  do 
with  you?  You  follow  your  profession,  and  pick  up 
pupils  wherever  you  can  find  them. 

MILL.  All  very  fine,  but  please  to  tell  me  what  will  be 
the  upshot  of  the  whole  affair?  He  can't  marry  the  girl 
—  marriage  is  out  of  the  question,  and  to  make  her  his  — 
God  help  us  !  "  Good-by  t'ye !  "  No,  no  —  when  such  a 
sprig  of  nobility  has  been  nibbling  here  and  there  and 
everywhere,  and  has  glutted  himself  with  the  devil 
knows  what  all,  of  course  it  will  be  a  relish  to  my  young 
gentleman  to  get  a  mouthful  of  sweet  water.  Take  heed  ! 
Take  heed !  If  you  were  dotted  with  eyes,  and  could 
place  a  sentinel  for  every  hair  of  your  head,  he'll  bam- 
boozle her  under  your  very  nose ;  add  one  to  her  reck- 
oning, take  himself  off,  and  the  girl's  ruined  for  life,  left 
in  the  lurch,  or,  having  once  tasted  the  trade,  will  carry 
it  on.  (Striking  his  forehead.)  Oh,  horrible  thought! 

MBS.  MILL.     God  in  his  mercy  protect  us! 

MILL.  We  shall  want  his  protection.  You  may  well 
say  that.  What  other  object  can  such  a  scapegrace 
have  ?  The  girl  is  handsome  —  well  made  —  can  show  a 
pretty  foot.  How  the  upper  story  is  furnished  matters 
little.  That's  blinked  in  you  women  if  nature  has  not 
played  the  niggard  in  other  respects.  Let  this  harum- 
scarum  but  turn  over  this  chapter  —  ho  !  ho !  his  eyes 
will  glisten  like  Rodney's  when  he  got  scent  of  a  French 
frigate ;  then  up  with  all  sail  and  at  her,  and  I  don't 
blame  him  for  it  —  flesh  is  flesh.  I  know  that  very 
well. 

MBS.  MILL.  You  should  only  read  the  beautiful  billj- 
doux  which  the  baron  writes  to  your  daughter.  Gracious 
me !  Why  it's  as  clear  as  the  sun  at  noonday  that  he 
loves  her  purely  for  her  virtuous  soul. 

MILL  That's  the  right  strain!  We  beat  the  sack, 
but  mean  the  ass's  back.  He  who  wishes  to  pay  his 
respects  to  the  flesh  needs  only  a  kind  heart  for  a  go- 
between.  What  did  I  myself?  'When  we've  once  so  far 
cleared  the  ground  that  the  affections  cry  ready !  slap  I 


LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE.  7 

the  bodies  follow  their  example,  the  appetites  are  obe 
dient,  and  the  silver  moon  kindly  plays  the  pimp. 

MRS.  MILL.  And  then  only  think  of  the  beautiful 
books  that  the  major  has  sent  us.  Your  daughter  always 
prays  out  of  them. 

MILL,  (whistles).  Prays !  You've  hit  the  mark.  The 
plain,  simple  food  of  nature  is  much  too  raw  and  indi- 

festible  for  this  maccaroni  gentleman's  stomach.  It  must 
e  cooked  for  him  artificially  in  the  infernal  pestilential 
pitcher  of  your  novel-writers.  Into  the  fire  with  the 
rubbish !  I  shall  have  the  girl  taking  up  with  • —  God 
knows  what  all  —  about  heavenly  fooleries  that  will  get 
Into  her  blood,  like  Spanish  flies,  and  scatter  to  the  "winds 
the  handful  of  Christianity  that  cost  her  father  so  much 
trouble  to  keep  together.  Into  the  fire  with  them  I  say  ! 
The  girl  will  take  the  devil's  own  nonsense  into  her  head; 
amidst  the  dreams  of  her  fool's  paradise  she'll  not  know 
her  own  home,  but  forget  and  feel  ashamed  of  her  father, 
the  music-master;  and,  lastly,  I  shall  lose  a  worthy, 
honest  son-in-law  who  might  have  nestled  himself  so 
snugly  into  my  connections.  No  !  damn  it !  (Jiimps  up 
in  a  passion.)  I'll  break  the  neck  of  it  at  once,  and  the 
major  —  yes,  yes,  the  major!  shall  be  shown  where  the 
carpenter  made  the  door.  (Going.) 

MRS.  MILL.  Be  civil,  Miller !  How  many  a  bright 
shilling  have  his  presents 

MILL,  (comes  back,  and  goes  tip  to  her).  The  blood- 
money  of  my  daughter  ?  To  Beelzebub  with  thee,  thou 
infamous  bawd  !  Sooner  will  I  vagabondize  with  my 
violin  and  fiddle  for  a  bit  of  bread  —  sooner  will  I  break 
to  pieces  my  instrument  and  carry  dung  on  the  sounding- 
board  than  taste  a  mouthful'earned  by  my  only  child  at 
the  price  of  her  soul  and  future  happiness.  Give  up  your 
cursed  coffee  and  snuff-taking,  and  there  will  be  no  need 
to  carry  your  daughter's  face  to  market.  I  have  always 
had  my  bellyful  and  a  good  shirt  to  my  back  before  this 
confounded  scamp  put  his  nose  into  my  crib. 

MRS.  MILL.  Now  don't  be  so  ready  to  pitch  the  house 
out  of  window.  How  you  flare  up  all  of  a  sudden.  I 
only  meant  to  say  that  we  shouldn't  offend  the  major, 
because  he  is  the  son  of  the  president. 


8  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

MILL.  There  lies  the  root  of  the  mischief.  For  that 
reason  —  for  that  very  reason  the  thing  must  be  put 
a  stop  to  this  very  day  !  The  president,  if  he  is  a  just 
and  upright  father,  will  give  me  his  thanks.  You  must 
brush  up  my  red  plush,  and  I  will  go  straight  to  his 
excellency.  I  shall  say  to  him,  —  "  Your  excellency's  son 
has  an  eye  to  my  daughter ;  my  daughter  is  not  good 
enough  to  be  your  excellency's  son's  wife,  but  too  good 
to  be  your  excellency's  son's  strumpet,  and  there's  an  end 
of  the  matter.  My  name  is  Miller." 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  SECRETARY  WORM. 

MRS.  MILL.  Ah !  Good  morning,  Mr.  Seckertary ! 
Have  we  indeed  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  again  ? 

WORM.  All  on  my  side  —  on  my  side,  cousin  Miller  ! 
Where  a  high-born  cavalier's  visits  are  received  mine  can 
be  of  no  account  whatever. 

MRS.  MILL.  How  can  you  think  so,  Mr.  Seckertary? 
His  lordship  the  baron,  Major  Ferdinand,  certainly  does 
us  the  honor  to  look  in  now  and  then  ;  but,  for  all  that,  we 
don't  undervalue  others. 

MILL,  (vexed ) .  A  chair,  wife,  for  the  gentleman  !  Be 
seated,  kinsman. 

WORM  (lays  aside  hat  and  stick,  and  seats  himself). 
Well,  well  —  and  how  then  is  my  future  —  or  past  — 
bride  ?  I  hope  she'll  not  be  —  may  I  not  have  the  honor 
of  seeing —  Miss  Louisa? 

MRS.  MILL.  Thanks  for  inquiries,  Mr.  Seckertary,  but 
my  daughter  is  not  at  all  proud. 

MILL,  (angry,  jogs  her  with  his  elbow).     Woman  ! 

MRS.  MILL.  Sorry  she  can't  have  that  honor,  Mr.  Sec- 
kertary. My  daughter  is  now  at  mass. 

WORM.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  —  glad  to  hear  it.  I 
shall  have  in  her  a  pious,  Christian  wife  ! 

MRS.  MILL,  (smiling  in  a  stupidly  affected  manner). 
Yes  —  but,  Mr.  Seckertary 

MILL,  (greatly  incensed,  pulls  her  ears).     Woman  ! 

MRS.  MILL.  If  our  family  can  serve  you  in  any  other 
way  —  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  Mr.  Seckertary 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  9 

WORM  (frowning  angrily).  In  any  other  way  ?  Much 
obliged  !  much  obliged  !  —  hm  !  hm !  hm  ! 

MKS.  MILL.  But,  as  you  yourself  must  see,  Mr.  Sec- 
kertary  

MILL,  (in  a  rage,  shaking  his  fist  at  her).     Woman  ! 

MRS.  MILL.  Good  is  good,  and  better  is  better,  and  one 
does  not  like  to  stand  between  fortune  and  one's  only 
child  (with  vulgar  pride).  You  understand  me,  Mr. 
Seckertary  ? 

WORM.    Understand.    Not  exac .    Oh,  yes.     But 

what  do  you  really  mean  ? 

MRS.  MILL.  Why  —  why  —  I  only  think  —  I  mean  — 
(coughs).  Since  then  Providence  has  determined  to  make 
a  great  lady  of  my  daughter 

WORM  (jumping  front,  his  chair).  What's  that  you 
say  ?  what  ? 

MILL.  Keep  your  seat,  keep  your  seat,  Mr.  Secretary  ! 
The  woman's  an  out-and-out  fool !  Where's  the  great 
lady  to  come  from  ?  How  you  show  your  donkey's  ears 
by  talking  such  stuff. 

MRS.  MILL.  Scold  as  long  as  you  will.  I  know  what 
I  know,  and  what  the  major  said  he  said. 

MILL,  (snatches  up  his  fiddle  in  anger).  Will  you 
hold  your  tongue  ?  Shall  I  throw  my  fiddle  at  your 
head  ?  -  What  can  you  know?  What  can  he  have  said  ? 
Take  no  notice  of  her  clack,  kinsman  !  Away  with  you  to 
your  kitchen  !  You'll  not  think  me  first  cousin  of  a  fool, 
and  tli at  I'm  looking  out  so  high  for  the  girl  ?  You'll 
not  think  that  of  me,  Mr.  Secretary? 

WORM.  Nor  have  I  deserved  it  of  you,  Mr.  Miller ! 
You  have  always  shown  yourself  a  man  of  your  word,  and 
my  contract  to  your  daughter  was  as  good  as  signed.  I 
hold  an  office  that  will  maintain  a  thrifty  manager;  the 
president  befriends  me  ;  the  door  to  advancement  is  open 
to  me  whenever  I  may  choose  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
You  see  that  my  intentions  towards  Miss  Louisa  are" 
serious ;  if  you  have  been  won  over  by  a  fop  of  rank 

MRS.  MILL.    Mr.  Seckertary !  more  respect,  I  beg 

MILL.  Hold  your  tongue,  I  say.  Never  mind  her. 
kinsman.  Things  remain  as  they  were.  The  answer  \ 
gave  you  last  harvest,  I  repeat  to-day.  I'll  not  force  mj 


10  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

daughter.  If  you  suit  her,  well  and  good ;  then  it's 
for  her  to  see  that  she  can  be  happy  with  you.  If  she 
shakes  her  head  — still  better  —  be  it  so,  I  should  say  — 
then  you  must  be  content  to  pocket  the  refusal,  and  part 
in  good  fellowship  over  a  bottle  with  her  father.  'Tis 
the  girl  who  is  to  live  with  you  —  not  I.  Why  should  I, 
out  of  sheer  caprice,  fasten  a  husband  upon  the  girl  for 
whom  she  has  no  inclination  ?  That  the  evil  one  may 
haunt  me  down  like  a  wild  beast  in  my  old  age  —  that  in 
every  drop  I  drink  —  in  every  bit  of  bread  I  bite,  I  might 
swallow  the  bitter  reproach :  Thou  art  the  villain  who 
destroyed  his  child's  happiness! 

MRS.  MILL.  The  short  and  the  long  of  it  is  —  I  refuse 
my  consent  downright ;  my  daughter's  intended  for  a 
lofty  station,  and  I'll  go  to  law  if  my  husband  is  going  to 
be  talked  over. 

MILL.  Shall  I  break  every  bone  in  your  body,  you 
millclack  ? 

WORM  (to  MILLER).  Paternal  advice  goes  a  great  way 
with  the  daughter,  and  I  hope  you  know  me,  Mr.  Miller  ? 

MILL.  Plague  take  you  !  'Tis  the  girl  must  know 
you.  What  an  old  crabstick  like  me  can  see  in  you  is 
just  the  very  last  thing  that  a  dainty  young  girl  wants. 
I'll  tell  you  to  a  hair  if  you're  the  man  for  an  orchestra 
— but  a  woman's  heart  is  far  too  deep  for  a  music-master. 
And  then,  to  be  frank  with  you  —  you  know  that  I'm  a 
blunt,  straightforward  fellow — you'll  not  give  thank'ye 
for  my  advice.  I'll  persuade  my  daughter  to  no  one  — 
but  from  you  Mr.  Sec —  I  would  dissuade  her  !  A  lover 
who  calls  upon  the  father  for  help  —  with  permission  — 
is  not  worth  a  pinch  of  snuff.  If  he  has  anything  in 
him,  he'll  be  ashamed  to  take  that  old-fashioned  way  of 
making  his  deserts  known  to  his  sweetheart.  If  he  hasn't 
the  courage,  why  he's  a  milksop,  and  no  Louisas  were  born 
for  the  like  of  him.  No !  he  must  carry  on  his  commerce 
with  the  daughter  behind  the  father's  back.  He  must 
manage  so  to  win  her  heart,  that  she  would  rather  wish 
both  father  and  mother  at  Old  Harry  than  give  him  up  — 
or  that  she  come  herself,  fall  at  her  father's  feet,  and  im- 
plore either  for  death  on  the  rack,  or  the  only  one  of  her 
heart.  That's  the  fellow  for  me!  that  I  call  love!  and 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  11 

he  who  can't  bring  matters  to  that  pitch  with  a  petticoat 
may  —  stick  the  goose  feather  in  his  cap. 

WORM  (seizes  hat  and  stick  and  hurries  out  of  the 
room).  Much  obliged,  Mr.  Miller! 

MILL,  {going  after  him  slowly}.  For  what?  for  what? 
You  haven't  taken  anything,  Mr.  Secretary!  (Comes 
back.}  He  won't  hear,  and  off  he's  gone.  The  very  sight 
of  that  quill-driver  is  like  poison  and  brimstone  to  me. 
An  ugly,  contraband  knave,  smuggled  into  the  world  by 
some  lewd  prank  of  the  devil  —  with  his  malicious  little 
pig's  eyes,  foxy  hair,  and  nut-cracker  chin,  just  as  if  Nature, 
enraged  at  such  a  bungled  piece  of  goods,  had  seized  the 
ugly  monster  by  it,  and  flung  him  aside.  No !  rather 
than  throw  away  my  daughter  on  a  vagabond  like  him, 
she  may  —  God  forgive  me  ! 

MRS.  MILL.  The  wretch  !  — but  you'll  be  made  to  keep 
a  clean  tongue  in  your  head  ! 

MILL.  Ay,  and  you  too,  with  your  pestilential  baron  — 
you,  too,  must  put  my  bristles  up.  You're  never  more 
stupid  than  when  you  have  the  most  occasion  to  show  a 
little  sense.  What's  the  meaning  of  all  that  trash  about 
your  daughter  being  a  great  lady  ?  If  it's  to  be  cried 
out  about  the  town  to-morrow,  you  need  only  let  that 
fellow  get  scent  of  it.  He  is  one  of  your  worthies  who 
go  sniffing  about  into  people's  houses,  dispute  upon  every- 
thing, and,  if  a  slip  of  the  tongue  happen  to  you,  skurry 
with  it  straight  to  the  prince,  mistress,  and  minister,  and 
then  there's  the  devil  to  pay. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  LOUISA  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 

LOUISA.     Good  morning,  dear  father  ! 

MILL,  (affectionately}.  Bless  thee,  my  Louisa!  I  re- 
joice to  see  thy  thoughts  are  turned  so  diligently  to  thy 
Creator.  Continue  so,  and  his  arm  will  support  thee. 

LOUISA.  Oh !  I  am  a  great  sinner,  father !  Was  he 
not  hei'e,  mother? 

MRS.  MILL.     Who,  my  child  ? 

LOUISA.    Ah !  I  forgot  that  there  are  others  in  the 


12  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

world  besides  him  —  my  head  wanders  so.  Was  he  not 
here?  Ferdinand? 

MILL,  (with  melancholy r,  serious  voice).  I  thought  my 
Louisa  had  forgotton  that  name  in  her  devotions  ? 

LOUISA  (after  looking  at  him  steadfastly  for  some  time), 
I  understand  you,  father.  I  feel  the  knife  which  staos 
rny  conscience  ;  but  it  comes  too  late.  I  can  no  longer 
pray,  father.  Heaven  and  Ferdinand  divide  my  bleeding 
soul,  and  I  fear  —  I  fear  —  (after  a  pause).  Yet  no,  no, 
good  father.  The  painter  is  best  praised  when  we  forget 
him  in  the  contemplation  of  his  picture.  When  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  masterpiece,  my  delight  makes  me 
forget  the  Creator,  —  is  not  that,  father,  the  true  praise 
of  God  ? 

MILL,  (throws  himself  in  displeasure  on  a  chair). 
There  we  have  it !  Those  are  the  fruits  of  your  ungodly 
reading. 

LOUISA  (uneasy,  goes  to  the  window).  Where  can  he 
be  now  ?  Ah  !  the  high-born  ladies  who  see  him  —  listen 
to  him  —  —  I  am  a  poor  forgotten  maiden.  (Startles  at 
that  word,  and  rushes  to  her  father.}  Bat  no,  no  !  forgive 
me.  I  do  not  repine  at  my  lot.  I  ask  but  little — to 
think  on  him  — that  can  harm  no  one.  Ah  !  that  I  might 
breathe  out  this  little  spark  of  life  in  one  soft  fondling 
zephyr  to  cool  his  cheek !  That  this  fragile  floweret, 
youth,  were  a  violet,  on  which  he  might  tread,  and  I  die 
modestly  beneath  his  feet!  I  ask  no  more,  father!  Can 
the  proud,  majestic  day-star  punish  the  gnat  for  basking 
in  its  rays  ? 

MILL,  (deeply  affected,  leans  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  covers  his  face).  My  child,  my  child,  with  joy  would 
I  sacrifice  the  remnant  of  my  days  hadst  thou  never  seen 
the  major. 

LOUISA  (terrified.)  How;  how?  What  did  you  say? 
No,  no!  that  could  not  be  your  meaning,  good  father. 
You  know  not  that  Ferdinand  is  mine!  You  know  not 
that  God  created  him  for  me,  and  for  my  delight  alone ! 
(After  a  pause  of  recollection.)  The  first  moment  that  I 
beheld  him  —  and  the  blood  rushed  into  my  glowing 
cheeks  —  every  pulse  beat  with  joy  ;  every  throb  told  me, 
every  breath  whispered,  "  'Tis  he ! "  And  my  heart, 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  13 

recognizing  the  long-desired  one,  repeated  "  'Tis  he  !  " 
And  the  whole  world  was  as  one  melodious  echo  of  my 
uelight !  Then  —  oh  !  then  was  the  first  dawning  of  my 
soul !  A  thousand  new  sentiments  arose  in  my  bosom, 
as  flowers  arise  from  the  earth  when  spring  approaches. 
1  forgot  there  was  a  world,  yet  never  had  I  felt  that 
world  so  dear  to  me !  I  forgot  there  was  a  God,  yet 
never  had  I  so  loved  him  ! 

MILL,  (runs  to  her  and  clasps  her  to  his  bosom).  Louisa! 
my  beloved,  my  admirable  child  !  Do  what  thou  wilt. 
Take  all  —  all  —  my  life  —  the  baron  —  God  is  my  wit- 
ess —  him  I  can  never  give  thee  !  \_Exit. 

LOUISA.  Nor  would  I  have  him  now,  father !  Time 
on  earth  is  but  a  stinted  dewdrop  in  the  ocean  of  eter- 
nity. 'Twill  swiftly  glide  in  one  delicious  dream  of  Fer- 
dinand. I  renounce  him  for  this  life  !  But  then,  mother 
—  then  when  the  bounds  of  separation  are  removed  — 
when  the  hated  distinctions  of  rank  no  longer  part  us  — 
when  men  will  be  only  men  —  I  shall  bring  nothing  with 
me  save  my  innocence  !  Yet  often  has  my  father  told 
me  that  at  the  Almighty's  coming  riches  and  titles  will 
be  worthless ;  and  that  hearts  alone  will  be  beyond  fill 
price.  Oh!  then  shall  I  be  rich!  There,  tears  will  be 
reckoned  for  triumphs,  and  purity  of  soul  be  preferred  to 
an  illustrious  ancestry.  Then,  then,  mother,  shall  I  be 
noble !  In  what  will  he  then  be  superior  to  the  girl  of 
his  heart  ? 

MRS.  MILL  (starts  from  her  seat).  Louisa!  the  baron  ! 
He  is  jumping  over  the  fence !  Where  shall  I  hide 
myself? 

LOUISA  (begins  to  tremble).  Oh!  do  not  leave  me, 
mother  ! 

MRS.  MILL.  Mercy !  What  a  figure  I  am.  I  am 
quite  ashamed  !  I  cannot  let  his  lordship  see  me  in  this 
state !  {Exit. 


14  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

SCENE   IV. 

LOUISA  —  FERDINAND.  (He  flies  towards  her  —  she  falls 
back  into  her  chair,  pale  and  trembling.  He  remains 
standing  before  her  —  they  look  at  each  other  for  some 
moments  in  silence.  A  pause.) 

FERDINAND.     So  pale,  Louisa? 

LOUISA  (rising,  and  embracing  him).  It  is  nothing  — 
nothing  now  that  you  are  here  —  it  is  over. 

FEED,  (takes  her  hand  and  raises  it  to  his  lips).  And 
does  my  Louisa  still  love  me?  My  heart  is  yesterday's  ; 
is  thine  the  same?  I  flew  hither  to  see  if  thou  wert 
happy,  that  I  might  return  and  be  so  too.  But  I  find 
thee  whelmed  in  sorrow! 

LOUISA.     Not  so,  my  beloved,  not  so ! 

FERD.  Confess,  Louisa !  you  are  not  happy.  I  see 
through  your  soul  as  clearly  as  through  the  transparent 
lustre  of  this  brilliant.  No  spot  can  harbor  here  unmarked 
by  me  —  no  thought  can  cloud  your  brow  that  does  not 
reach  your  lover's  heart.  Whence  comes  this  grief? 
Tell  me,  I  beseech  you  !  Ah  !  could  I  feel  assured  this 
mirror  still  remained  unsullied,  there'd  seem  to  me  no 
cloud  in  all  the  universe !  Tell  me,  dear  Louisa,  what 
afflicts  you  ? 

LOUISE  (looking  at  him  with  anxiety  for  a  few  mo- 
ments). Ferdinand!  couldst  thou  but  know  how  such 
discourse  exalts  the  tradesman's  daughter 

FERD.  (surprised).  What  say'st  thou?  Tell  me, 
girl !  how  earnest  thou  by  that  thought  ?  Thou  art  my 
Louisa  !  who  told  thee  thou  couldst  be  aught  else  ?  See, 
false  one,  see,  for  what  coldness  I  must  chide  thee  !  Were 
indeed  thy  whole  soul  absorbed  by  love  for  me,  never 
hadst  thou  found  time  to  draw  comparisons!  When  I 
am  with  thee,  my  prudence  is  lost  in  one  look  from  thine 
eyes :  when  I  am  absent  in  a  dream  of  thee  !  But  thou  — 
thou  canst  harbor  prudence  in  the  same  breast  with 
love!  Fie  on  thee!  Every  moment  bestowed  on  this 
sorrow  was  a  robbery  from  affection  and  from  me ! 

LOUISA  Dressing  his  hand  and  shaking  her  head  with 
a  melancholy  air).  Ferdinand,  you  would  lull  my  appre- 
hensions to  sleep ;  you  would  divert  my  eyes  from  the 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  15 

precipice  into  which  I  am  falling.    I  can  see  the  future ! 
The  voice  of  honor  — your  prospects,  your  father's  anger 

—  my  nothingness.    (Shuddering  and  suddenly  drops  his 
hands.}      Ferdinand!    a    sword   hangs   over  us!     They 
would  separate  us ! 

FEED,  (jumps  up).  Separate  us  !  Whence  these  ap- 
prehensions, Louisa?  Who  can  rend  the  bonds  that 
bind  two  hearts,  or  separate  the  tones  of  one  accord? 
True,  I  am  a  nobleman  —  but  show  me  that  my  patent 
of  nobility  is  older  than  the  eternal  laws  of  the  universe 
• — or  my  escutcheon  more  valid  than  the  handwriting  of 
heaven  in  my  Louisa's  eyes  ?  "  This  woman  is  for  this 
man?"  I  am  son  of  the  prime  minister.  For  that  very 
reason,  what  but  love  can  soften  the  curses  which  my 
father's  extortions  from  the  country  will  entail  upon  me? 

LOUISA.     Oh  !  how  I  fear  that  father ! 

FERD.  I  fear  nothing  —  nothing  but  that  your  affec- 
tion should  know  bounds.  Let  obstacles  rise  between  us, 
huge  as  mountains,  I  will  look  upon  them  as  a  ladder  by 
which  to  fly  into  the  arms  of  my  Louisa !  The  tempest 
of  opposing  fate  shall  but  fan  the  flame  of  my  affection  : 
dangers  will  only  serve  to  make  Louisa  yet  more  charm- 
ing. Then  speak  no  more  of  terrors,  my  love  !  I  myself 

—  I  will  watch  over  thee  carefully  as  the  enchanter's 
dragon  watches  over  buried  gold.     Trust  thyself  to  me  ! 
thou  shalt  need  no  other   angel.     I  will  throw  myself 
between  thee  and   fate  —  for  thee  receive  each  wound. 
For  thee  will  I  catch  each  drop  distilled  from  the  cup  of 
joy,  and  bring  thee  in  the  bowl  of  love.     (Embracing 
her  affectionately.}     This  arm  shall  support  my  Louisa 
through  life.     Fairer  than  it  dismissed  thee,  shall  heaven 
receive  thee  back,   and   confess  with  delight   that   love 
alone  can  give  perfection  to  the  soul. 

LOUISA  (disengaging  herself  from  him,  greatly  agitated). 
No  more  !  I  beseech  thee,  Ferdinand  !  no  more  !  Couldst 
thou  know.  Oh  !  leave  me,  leave  me  !  Little  dost  thou 
feel  how  these  hopes  rend  my  heart  in  pieces  like  fiends ! 
(  Going.) 

FERD  (detaining  her).  Stay,  Louisa !  stay  !  Why  this 
agitation  ?  Why  those  anxious  looks? 

LOUISA.     I  had  forgotten  these  dreams,  and  was  happy. 


16  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

Now  —  now  —  from  this  day  is  the  tranquillity  of  my 
heart  no  more.  Wild  impetuous  wishes  will  torment  my 
bosom !  Go !  God  forgive  thee !  Thou  hast  hurled  a 
firebrand  into  my  young  peaceful  heart  which  nothing 
can  extinguish  !  (She  breaks  from  him,  and  rushes  from 
the  apartment,  followed  by  FERDINAND.) 

SCENE  V.  —  A  Chamber  in  the  PRESIDENT'S  House. 

The  PRESIDENT,  with  the  grand  order  of  the  cross  about 
his  neck,  and  a  star  at  his  breast  —  SECRETARY  WORM. 

PRESIDENT.  A  serious  attachment,  say  you?  No,  no, 
Worm ;  that  I  never  can  believe. 

WORM.  If  your  excellency  pleases,  I  will  bring  proofs 
of  my  assertions. 

PRES.  That  he  has  a  fancy  for  the  wench — flatters 
her  —  and,  if  you  will,  pretends  to  love  her — all  this  is 
very  possible — nay  —  excusable — but  — and  the  daughter 
of  a  musician,  you  say? 

WORM.     Of  Miller,  the  music-master. 

PRES.     Handsome?    But  that,  of  course. 

WORM  (with  warmth).  A  most  captivating  and  lovely 
blondine,  who,  without  saying  too  much,  might  figure 
advantageously  beside  the  greatest  beauties  of  the  court. 

PRES.  (laughs').  It's  very  plain,  Worm,  that  you  have 
an  eye  upon  the  jade  yourself  —  I  see  that.  But  listen, 
Worm.  That  my  son  has  a  passion  for  the  fair  sex  gives 
me  hope  that  he  will  find  favor  with  the  ladies.  He  may 
make  his  way  at  court.  The  girl  is  handsome,  you  say ; 
I  am  glad  to  think  my  son  has  taste.  Can  he  deceive  the 
silly  wench  by  holding  out  honorable  intentions  —  still 
better;  it  will  show  that  he  is  shrewd  enough  to  play  the 
hypocrite  when  it  serves  his  purpose.  He  may  become 
prime  minister  —  if  he  accomplishes  his  purpose!  Ad- 
mirable !  that  will  prove  to  me  that  fortune  favors  him. 
Should  the  farce  end  with  a  chubby  grandchild  —  incom- 
parable !  I  will  drink  an  extra  bottle  of  Malaga  to  the 
prospects  of  my  pedigree,  and  cheerfully  pay  the  wench's 
lying-in  expenses. 

WORM.  All  I  wish  is  that  your  excellency  may  not 
have  to  drink  that  bottle  to  drown  your  sorrow. 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  17 

PBES.  (stsrnly).  Worm !  remember  that  what  I  once 
believe,  I  believe  obstinately  —  that  I  am  furious  when 
angered.  I  am  willing  to  pass  over  as  a  joke  this  attempt 
to  stir  my  blood.  That  you  are  desirous  of  getting  rid 
of  your  rival,  I  can  very  well  comprehend,  and  that, 
because  you  might  have  some  difficulty  in  supplanting  the 
son,  you  endeavor  to  make  a  cat's-paw  of  the  father,  I 
can  also  understand  — •  I  am  even  delighted  to  find  that 
you  are  master  of  such  excellent  qualifications  in  the  way 
of  roguery.  Only,  friend  Worm,  pray  don't  make  me, 
too,  the  butt  of  your  knavery.  Understand  me,  have  a 
care  that  your  cunning  trench  not  upon  my  plans ! 

WORM.  Pardon  me,  your  excellency  !  If  even  —  as 
you  suspect — jealousy  is  concerned,  it  is  only  with  the 
eye,  and  uot  with  the  tongue. 

PBBS.  It  would  be  better  to  dispense  with  it  alto- 
gether. What  can  it  matter  to  you,  simpleton,  whether 
you  get  your  coin  fresh  from  the  mint,  or  it  comes  through 
a  banker?  Console  yourself  with  the  example  of  our 
nobility.  Whether,  known  to  the  bridegroom  or  not,  I 
can  assure  you  that,  amongst  us  of  rank,  scarcely  a  mar- 
riage takes  place  but  what  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  the 
guests  —  or  the  footmen  —  can  state  the  geometrical  area 
of  the  bridegroom's  paradise. 

WORM  (bowing}.  My  lord!  Upon  this  head  I  confess 
myself  a  plebeian. 

PBES.  And,  besides,  you  may  soon  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  turning  the  laugh  most  handsomely  against  your 
rival.  At  this  very  moment  it  is  under  consideration  in- 
the  cabinet,  that,  upon  the  arrival  of  the  new  duchess, 
Lady  Milford  shall  apparently  be  discarded,  and,  to  com- 
plete the  deception,  form  an  alliance.  You  know,  Worm, 
how  greatly  my  influence  depends  upon  this  lady  —  how 
my  mightiest  prospects  hang  upon  the  passions  of  the 
prince.  The  duke  is  now  seeking  a  partner  for  Lady 
Milford.  Some  one  else  may  step  in  —  conclude  the  bar- 
gain for  her  ladyship,  win  the  confidence  of  the  prince, 
and  make  himself  indispensable,  to  my  cost.  Now,  to 
retain  the  prince  in  the  meshes  of  my  family,  I  have  re- 
solved that  my  Ferdinand  shall  marry  Lady  Milford.  Is 
that  clear  to  you  ? 


18  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

WORM.  Quite  dazzling  !  Your  excellency  has  at  least 
convinced  me  that,  compared  with  the  president,  the 
father  is  but  a  novice.  Should  the  major  prove  as  obe- 
dient a  son  as  you  show  yourself  a  tender  father,  your 
demand  may  chance  to  be  returned  with  a  protest. 

PRES.  Fortunately  I  have  never  yet  had  to  fear  oppo- 
sition to  my  will  when  once  I  have  pronounced,  "  It 
shall  be  so  !  But  now,  Worm,  that  brings  us  back  to 
our  former  subject !  I  will  propose  Lady  Milford  to 
my  son  this  very  day.  The  face  which  he  puts  upon  it 
shall  either  confirm  your  suspicions  or  entirely  confute 
them. 

WORM.  Pardon  me,  my  lord  !  The  sullen  face  which 
lie  most  assuredly  will  put  upon  it  may  be  placed  equally 
to  the  account  of  the  bride  you  offer  to  him  as  of  her 
from  whom  you  wish  to  separate  him.  I  would  beg  of 
you  a  more  positive  test !  Propose  to  him  some  perfectly 
unexceptionable  woman.  Then,  if  he  consents,  let  Sec- 
retary Worm  break  stones  on  the  highway  for  the  next 
three  years. 

PRKS.  (biting  his  lips).     The  devil ! 

WORM.  Such  is  the  case,  you  may  rest  assured  !  The 
mother — stupidity  itself — has,  in  her  simplicity,  betrayed 
all  to  me. 

PRES.  (pacing  the  room,  and  trying  to  repress  his  rage). 
Good  !  this  very  morning,  then  ! 

WORM.  Yet,  let  me  entreat  your  excellency  not  to 
forget  that  the  major  —  is  my  master's  son 

PRES.     No  harm  shall  come  to  him,  Worm. 

WORM.  And  that  my  service  in  ridding  you  of%an 
unwelcome  daughter-in-law 

PRKS.  Shoutd  be  rewarded  by  me  helping  you  to  a 
wife  ?  That  too,  Worm  ! 

WORM  (bowing  with  delight}.  Eternally  your  lordship's 
slave.  ( Going.} 

PRES.  (threatening  him).  As  to  what  I  have  confided 
to  you,  Worm!  If  you  dare  but  to  whisper  a 
syllable 

WORM,  (laughs).  Then  your  excellency  will  no  doubt 
expose  my  forgeries !  \_Exit. 

PRES.     Yes,  yes,  you  are  safe  enough  !     I  hold  you  in 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  19 

the  fetters  of  your  own  knavery,  like  a  trout  on  the 
hook ! 

Enter  SERVANT. 

SERVANT.    Marshal  Kalb 

PRES.  The  very  man  I  wished  to"  see.  Introduce 
him.  \_Exit  SERVANT. 

SCENE  VI. 

MARSHAL  KALB,  in  a  rich  but  tasteless  court-dress,  with 
Chamberlain's  keys,  two  watches,  sword,  three-cornered 
hat,  and  hair  dressed  a  la  Herisson.  He  bustles  up  to 
the  PRESIDENT,  and  diffuses  a  strong  scent  of  musk 
through  the  whole  theatre  —  PRESIDENT. 

MARSHAL.  Ah !  good  morning,  my  dear  baron  !  Quite 
delighted  to  see  you  again — pray  forgive  my  not  hav- 
ing paid  my  respects  to  you  at  an  earlier  hour  —  the 
most  pressing  business  —  the  duke's  bill  of  fare  —  invita- 
tion cards  —  arrangements  for  the  sledge  party  to-day  — 
ah  !  —  besides  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  be  at  the  levee, 
to  inform  his  highness  of  the  state  of  the  weather. 

PRES.  True,  marshal !  Such  weighty  concerns  were 
not  to  be  neglected  ! 

MARSHAL.  Then  a  rascally  tailor,  too,  kept  me  wait- 
ing for  him  ! 

PRES.     And  yet  ready  to  the  moment? 

MARSHAL.  Nor  is  that  all !  One  misfortune  follows 
at  the  heels  of  the  other  to-day  !  Only  hear  me  ! 

PRES.  (absent).     Can  it  be  possible? 

MARSHAL.  Just  listen  !  Scarce  had  I  quitted  my  car- 
riage, when  the  horses  became  restive,  and  began  to 
plunge  and  rear  —  only  imagine  !  —  splashed  my  breeches 
all  over  with  mud  !  What  was  to  be  done?  Fancy,  my 
dear  baron,  just  fancy  yourself  for  a  moment  in  my  pre- 
dicament! There  I  stood!  the  hour  was  late!  a  day's 
journey  to  return  —  yet  to  appear  before  his  highness  in 
this  —  good  heavens!  What  did  I  bethink  me  of?  I 
pretended  to  faint !  They  bundle  me  into  my  carriage  ! 
I  drive  home  like  mad — change  my  dress — hasten 
back  —  and  only  think  !  —  in  spite  of  all  this  I  was  the 


20  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

first  person  in  the  antechamber !    What  say  you  to  that  ? 

PRES.  A  most  admirable  impromptu  of  mortal  wit  — 
but  tell  me,  Kalb,  did  you  speak  to  the  duke  ? 

MARSHAL  (importantly).  Full  twenty  minutes  and  a 
half. 

PRES.  Indeed  ?  Then  doubtless  you  have  important 
news  to  impart  to  me? 

MARSHAL  (seriously,  after  a  pause  of  reflection).  His 
1  ugh  ness  wears  a  Merde  d'Oye  beaver  to-day. 

PRES.  God  bless  me !  —  and  yet,  marshal,  I  have  even 
greater  news  to  tell  you.  Lady  Milford  will  soon  become 
my  daughter-in-law.  That,  I  think  will  be  new  to  you? 

MARSHAL.  Is  it  possible!  And  is  it  already  agreed 
upon  ? 

PRES.  It  is  settled,  marshal  —  and  you  would  oblige 
me  by  forthwith  waiting  upon  her  ladyship,  and  prepar- 
ing her  to  receive  Ferdinand's  visit.  You  have  full 
liberty,  also,  to  circulate  the  news  of  my  son's  ap- 
proaching nuptials. 

MARSHAL.  My  dear  friend !  With  consummate  pleas- 
ure !  What  can  I  desire  more  ?  I  fly  to  the  baroness  this 
moment.  Adieu  !  {Embracing  him.)  In  less  than  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  it  shall  be  known  throughout  the 
town.  [Skips  off. 

PRES.  (smiling  contemptuously).  How  can  people 
say  that  such  creatures  are  of  no  use  in  the  world  ?  Now, 
then,  Master  Ferdinand  must  either  consent  or  give  the 
whole  town  the  lie.  (Rings — WORM  enters.)  Send  my 
son  hither.  (WORM  retires ;  the  PRESIDENT  walks  up 
and  down,  full  of  thought.) 

SCENE  VII. 
PRESIDENT  —  FERDINAND. 

FERD.     In  obedience  to  your  commands,  sir 

PRES.  Ay,  if  I  desire  the  presence  of  my  son,  I  must 
command  it  —  Ferdinand,  I  have  observed  you  for  some 
time  past,  and  find  no  longer  that  open  vivacity  of  youth 
which  once  so  delighted  me.  An  unusual  sorrow  broods 
upon  your  features  ;  you  shun  your  father ;  you  shun  so- 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  21 

ciety.  For  shame,  Ferdinand  !  At  your  age  a  thousand 
irregularities  are  easier  forgiven  than  one  instant  of  idle 
melancholy.  Leave  this  to  me,  my  son  !  Leave  the  care 
of  your  future  happiness  to  my  direction,  and  study  only 
to  co-operate  with  my  designs  —  come,  Ferdinand,  em- 
brace me ! 

FEED.     You  are  most  gracious  to-day,  father! 

PKES.  "  To-day,"  you  rogue?  and  your  "  to-day"  with 
such  a  vinegar  look  ?  (/Seriously.)  Ferdinand !  For 
whose  sake  have  I  trod  that  dangerous  path  which  leads 
to  the  affections  of  the  prince  ?  For  whose  sake  have  I 
forever  destroyed  my  peace  with  Heaven  and  my  con- 
science? Hear  me,  Ferdinand — I  am  speaking  to  my 
son.  For  whom  have  I  paved  the  way  by  the  removal  of 
my  predecessor  ?  a  deed  which  the  more  deeply  gores  my 
inward  feelings  the  more  carefully  I  conceal  the  dagger 
from  the  world !  Tell  me,  Ferdinand,  for  whose  sake 
have  I  done  all  this  ? 

FEBD.  (recoiling  with  horror).  Surely  not  for  mine, 
father,  not  for  mine  ?  Surely  not  on  me  can  fall  the 
bloody  reflection  of  this  murder?  By  my  Almighty 
Maker,  it  were  better  never  to  have  been  born  than  to  be 
the  pretext  for  such  a  crime  ! 

PRES.  What  sayest  thou  ?  How  ?  But  I  will  attrib- 
ute these  strange  notions  to  thy  romantic  brain,  Ferdi- 
nand ;  let  me  not  lose  my  temper — ungrateful  boy! 
Thus  dost  thou  repay  me  for  my  sleepless  nights  ?  Thus 
for  my  restless  anxiety  to  promote  thy  good?  Thus  for 
the  never-dying  scorpion  of  my  conscience?  Upon  me 
must  fall  the  burden  of  responsibility ;  upon  me  the  curse, 
the  thunderbolt  of  the  Judge.  Thou  receivest  thy  for- 
tune from  another's  hand  —  the  crime  is  not  attached  to 
the  inheritance. 

FERD.  (extending  his  right  hand  towards  heaven) .  Here 
I  solemnly  abjure  an  inheritance  which  must  ever  remind 
me  of  a  parent's  guilt ! 

PRES.  Hear  me,  sirrah !  and  do  not  incense  me  !  Were 
you  left  to  your  own  direction  you  would  crawl  through 
life  in  the  dust. 

FERD.  Oh !  better,  father,  far,  far  better,  than  to 
crawl  about  a  throne  ! 


22  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

PRES.  (repressing  his  anger).  So !  Then  compulsion 
must  make  you  sensible  of  your  good  fortune  !  To  that 
point,  which,  with  the  utmost  striving  a  thousand  others 
fail  to  reach,  you  have  been  exalted  in  your  very  sleep. 
At  twelve  you  received  a  commission  ;  at  twenty  a  com- 
mand. I  have  succeeded  in  obtaining  for  you  the  duke's 
patronage.  He  bids  you  lay  aside  your  uniform,  and 
share  with  me  his  favor  and  his  confidence.  He  spoke  of 
titles  —  embassies  —  of  honors  bestowed  but  upon  few. 
A  glorious  prospect  spreads  itself  before  you !  The 
direct  path  to  the  place  next  the  throne  lies  open  to  you! 
Nay,  to  the  throne  itself,  if  the  actual  power  of  ruling  is 
equivalent  to  the  mere  symbol.  Does  not  that  idea  awaken 
your  ambition  ? 

FERD.  No !  My  ideas  of  greatness  and  happiness 
differ  widely  from  yours.  Your  happiness  is  but  seldom 
known,  except  by  the  misery  of  others.  Envy,  terror, 
hatred  are  the  melancholy  mirrors  in  which  the  smiles  of 
princes  are  reflected.  Tears,  curses,  and  the  wailings  of 
despair,  the  horrid  banquet  that  feasts  your  supposed 
elect  of  fortune ;  intoxicated  with  these  they  rush  head- 
long into  eternity,  staggering  to  the  throne  of  judgment. 
My  ideas  of  happiness  teach  me  to  look  for  its  fountain  in 
myself!  All  my  wishes  lie  centered  in  my  heart! 

PRES.  Masterly!  Inimitable!  Admirable!  The  first 
schooling  I  have  received  these  thirty  years  !  Pity  that 
the  brain  at  fifty  should  be  so  dull  at  learning!  But  — 
that  such  talent  may  not  rust,  I  will  place  one  by  your 
side  on  whom  you  can  practise  your  harlequinade  follies 
at  pleasure.  You  will  resolve  —  resolve  this  very  day  — 
to  take  a  wife. 

FERD.  (starting  back  amazed ).     Father  ! 

PRES.  Answer  me  not.  I  have  made  proposals,  in 
your  name,  to  Lady  Milford.  You  will  instantly  deter- 
mine upon  going  to  her,  and  declaring  yourself  her  bride- 
groom. 

FERD.     Lady  Milford  !  father  ? 

PRES.     I  presume  she  is  not  unknown  to  you ! 

FERD.  (passionately).  To  what  brothel  is  she  unknown 
through  the  dukedom  ?  But  pardon  me,  dearest  father! 
It  is  ridiculous  to  imagine  that  your  proposal  can  be 


LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE.  23 

serious.  Would  you  call  yourself  father  of  that  infamous 
son  who  married  a  licensed  prostitute  ? 

PRES.  Nay,  more.  I  would  ask  her  hand  myself,  if 
she  would  take  a  man  of  fifty.  Would  not  you  call  your- 
self that  infamous  father's  son  ? 

FEED.     No!   as  God  lives!  that  would  I  not  I 

PKES.  An  audacity,  by  my  honor !  which  I  pardon  for 
its  excessive  singularity. 

FERD.  I  entreat  you,  father,  release  me  from  a  demand 
which  would  render  it  insupportable  to  call  myself  your 
son. 

PRES.  Are  you  distracted,  boy?  What  reasonable 
man  would  not  thirst  after  a  distinction  which  makes 
him,  as  one  of  a  trio',  the  equal  and  co-partner  of  his  sov- 
ereign ? 

FERD.  You  are  quite  an  enigma  to  me,  father!  "A 
distinction,"  do  you  call  it  ?  A  distinction  to  share  that 
with  a  prince,  wherein  he  places  himself  on  a  level  with 
the  meanest  of  his  subjects?  (  The  PRESIDENT  bursts  into 
a  loud  lauf/h.)  You  may  scoff  —  I  must  submit  to  it  in 
a  father.  With  what  countenance  should  I  support  the 
gaze  of  the  meanest  laborer,  who  at  least  receives  an  un- 
divided person  as  the  portion  of  his  bride  ?  With  what 
countenance  should  I  present  myself  before  the  world? 
before  the  prince?  nay,  before  the  harlot  herself,  who 
seeks  to  wash  out  in  my  shame  the  brandmarks  of  her 
honor  ? 

PRES.  Where  in  the  world  could st  thou  collect  such 
notions,  boy  ? 

FERD.  I  implore  you,  father,  by  heaven  and  earth! 
By  thus  sacrificing  your  only  son  you  can  never  become 
so  happy  as  you  will  make  him  miserable  !  If  my  life 
can  be  a  step  to  your  advancement,  dispose  of  it.  My 
life  you  gave  me;  and  I  will  never  hesitate  a  moment  to 
sacrifice  it  wholly  to  your  welfare.  But  my  honor,  father  ! 
If  you  deprive  me  of  this,  the  giving  me  life  was  a  mere 
trick  of  wanton  cruelty,  and  I  must  equally  curse  the 
parent  and  the  pander. 

PRES.  (tapping  him  on  the  shoulder  in  a  friendly  man- 
ner). That's  as  it  should  be,  my  dear  boy !  Now  I  see 
that  you  are  a  brave  and  noble  fellow,  and  worthy  of  the 


24  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

first  woman  in  the  dukedom.  You  shall  have  her.  This 
very  day  you  shall  be  affianced  to  the  Countess  of 
Ostheim. 

FEED,  (in  new  disorder).  Is  this,  then,  destined  to  be 
the  hour  of  my  destruction  ? 

PRES.  (regarding  him  with  an  eye  of  suspicion).  In 
this  union,  I  imagine,  you  can  have  no  objection  on  the 
score  of  honor? 

FERD.  None,  father,  none  whatever.  Frederica  of 
Ostheim  would  make  any  other  the  happiest  of  men. 
(Aside,  in  the  greatest  agitation.)  His  kindness  rends  in 
pieces  that  remnant  of  my  heart  which  his  cruelty  left 
unwounded. 

PRES.  (his  eye  still  fixed  upon  him).  I  expect  your 
gratitude,  Ferdinand  ! 

FERD.  (rushes  towards  him  and  kisses  his  hands). 
Father,  your  goodness  awakens  every  spark  of  sentiment 
in  my  bosom.  Father!  receive  my  warmest  thanks  for 
your  kind  intentions.  Your  choice  is  unexceptionable  ! 
But  I  cannot — I  dare  not  —  pity  me,  father,  I  never  can 
love  the  countess. 

PRES.  (draws  back).  Ha!  ha!  now  I've  caught  you, 
young  gentleman  !  The  cunning  fox  has  tumbled  into 
the  trap.  Oh,  you  artful  hypocrite  !  It  was  not  then 
honor  which  made  you  refuse  Lady  Milford  ?  It  was  not 
the  woman,  but  the  nuptials  which  alarmed  you  !  (FER- 
DINAND stands  petrified  for  a  moment /  then  recovers 
himself  and  prepares  to  quit  the  chamber  hastily.) 
Whither  now  ?  Stay,  sir.  Is  this  the  respect  due  to  your 
father?  (FERDINAND  returns  slowly.)  Her  ladyship  ex- 
pects you.  The  duke  has  my  promise  !  Both  court  and 
city  believe  all  is  settled.  If  thou  makest  me  appear  a 
liar,  boy!  If,  before  the  duke  —  the  lady  —  the  court 
and  city  —  thou  shouldst  make  me  appear  a  liar!  — 
tremble,  boy  ! — or  when  I  have  gained  information  of 
certain  circumstances  —  how  now  ?  Why  does  the  color 
so  suddenly  forsake  your  cheeks? 

FERD.  (pale  and  trembling).  How?  What?  Noth- 
ing—  it  is  nothing,  my  father ! 

PRES.  (casting  upon  him  a  dreadful  look).  Should 
there  be  cause.  If  I  should  discover  the  source  whence 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  25 

this  obstinacy  proceeds  !  Boy !  boy  !  the  very  suspicion 
drives  me  distracted!  Leave  me  this  moment.  'Tis  now 
the  hour  of  parade.  As  soon  as  the  word  is  given,  go 
thou  to  her  ladyship.  At  my  nod  a  dukedom  trembles ; 
we  shall  see  whether  a  disobedient  son  dare  dispute  my 
will!  (Going,  returns.)  Remember,  sir!  fail  not  to 
wait  on  Lady  Milford,  or  dread  my  anger  !  [Exit, 

FEED,  (awakens,  as  if  from  a  dream).  Is  he  gone? 
Was  that  a  father's  voice  ?  Yes,  I  will  go  —  I  will  see 
her — I  will  say  such  things  to  her  —  hold  such  a  mirror 
before  her  eyes.  Then,  base  woman,  shouldst  thou  still 
demand  my  hand  —  in  the  presence  of  the  assembled 
nobles,  the  military,  and  the  people  —  gird  thyself  with 
all  the  pride  of  thy  native  Britain  —  I,  a  German  youth, 
will  spurn  thee !  [Exit. 


ACT  H. 

SCENE  I. — A  room  in  LADY  MILFORD'S  house.  On  the 
right  of  the  stage  stands  a  sofa,  on  the  left  a  piano- 
forte. 

LADY  MILFOED,  in  a  loose  but  elegant  negligee,  is  running 
her  hand  over  the  keys  of  the  pianoforte  as  SOPHY 
advances  from  the  window. 

SOPHY.  The  parade  is  over,  and  the  officers  are  separ- 
ating, but  I  see  no  signs  of  the  major. 

LADY  M.  (rises  and  walks  up  and  down  the  room  in 
visible  agitation).  I  know  not  what  ails  me  to-day, 
Sophy  !  I  never  felt  so  before  —  you  say  you  do  not  see 
him  !  It  is  evident  enough  that  he  is  by  no  means  im- 
patient for  this  meeting — my  heart  feels  oppressed  as  if 
by  some  heavy  crime.  Go !  Sophy,  order  the  most 
spirited  horse  in  the  stable  to  be  saddled  for  me  —  I 
must  away  into  the  open  air  where  I  may  look  on  the 
blue  sky  and  hear  the  busy  hum  of  man.  I  must  dispel 
this  gloominess  by  change  and  motion. 

SOPHY.  If  you  feel  out  of  spirits,  my  lady,  why  not 
invite  company  !  Let  the  prince  give  an  entertainment 
here,  or  have  the  ombre  table  brought  to  you.  If  the 


26  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

prince  and  all  his  court  were  at  my  beck  and  call  I  would 
let  no  whim  or  fancy  trouble  me  ! 

LADY  M.  (throwing  herself  on  the  couch).  Pray,  spare 
me.  I  would  gladly  give  a  jewel  in  exchange  for  every 
hour's  respite  from  the  infliction  of  such  company  !  I 
always  have  my  rooms  tapestried  with  these  creatures! 
Narrow-minded,  miserable  beings,  who  are  quite  shocked 
it'  by  chance  a  candid  and  heartfelt  word  should  escape 
one's  lips!  and  stand  aghast  as  though  they  saw  an 
apparition ;  slaves,  moved  by  a  single  puppet-wire,  which 
I  can  govern  as  easily  as  the  threads  of  my  embroidery! 
What  can  I  have  in  common  with  such  insipid  wretches, 
whose  souls,  like  their  watches,  are  regulated  by  machin- 
ery? What  pleasure  can  I  have  in  the  society  of  people 
whose  answers  to  my  questions  I  know  beforehand  ? 
How  can  I  hold  communion  with  men  who  dare  not 
venture  on  an  opinion  of  their  own  lest  it  should  differ 
from  mine !  Away  with  them  —  I  care  not  to  ride  a 
horse  that  has  not  spirit  enough  to  champ  the  bit !  ( Goes 
to  the  window.} 

SOPHY.  But  surely,  my  lady,  you  except  the  prince, 
the  handsomest,  the  wittiest,  and  the  most  gallant  man 
in  all  his  duchy. 

LADY  M.  (returning).  Yes,  in  his  duchy,  that  was 
well  said — and  it  is  only  a  royal  duchy,  Sophy,  that 
could  in  the  least  excuse  my  weakness.  You  say  the 
world  envies  me  !  Poor  thing  !  It  should  rather  pity  me  ! 
Believe  me,  of  all  who  drink  of  the  streams  of  royal 
bounty  there  is  none  more  miserable  than  the  sovereign's 
favorite,  for  he  who  is  great  and  mighty  in  the  eyes  of 
others  comes  to  her  but  as  the  humble  suppliant !  It  is 
true  that  by  the  talisman  of  his  greatness  he  can  realize 
every  wish  of  my  heart  as  readily  as  the  magician  calls 
forth  the  fairy  palace  from  the  depths  of  the  earth  !  He 
can  place  the  luxuries  of  both  Indies  upon  my  table, 
turn  the  barren  wilderness  to  a  paradise,  can  bid  the 
broad  rivers  of  his  land  play  in  triumphal  arches  over  my 
path,  or  expend  nil  the  hard-earned  gains  of  his  subjects 
in  a  single  feu-de-joie  to  my  honor.  But  can  he  school 
his  heart  to  respond  to  one  great  or  ardent  emotion? 
Can  he  extort  one  noble  thought  from  his  weak  and 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  27 

indigent  brain?  Alas!  my  heart  is  thirsting  amid  all 
this  ocean  of  splendor;  what  avail,  then,  a  thousand 
virtuous  sentiments  when  I  am  only  permitted  to  indulge 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  senses. 

SOPHY  (regarding  her  with  surprise).  Dear  lady, 
you  amaze  me !  how  long  is  it  since  I  entered  your 
service? 

LADY  M.  Do  you  ask  because  this  is  the  first  day  on 
which  you  have  learnt  to  know  me?  I  have  sold  my 
honor  to  the  prince,  it  is  true,  but  my  heart  is  still  my 
own  —  a  heart,  dear  Sophy,  which  even  yet  may  be 
worth  the  acceptance  of  an  honorable  man  —  a  heart  over 
which  the  pestilential  blast  of  courtly  corruption  has 
passed  as  the  breath  which  for  a  moment  dims  the 
mirror's  lustre.  Believe  me  my  spirit  would  long  since 
have  revolted  against  this  miserable  thraldom  could  my 
ambition  have  submitted  to  see  another  advanced  to 
my  place. 

SOPHY.  And  could  a  heart  like  yours  so  readily  sur- 
render itself  to  mere  ambition  ? 

LADY  M.  (with  energy).  Has  it  not  already  been 
avenged?  nay,  is  it  not  even  at  this  very  moment  making 
me  pay  a  heavy  atonement  (with  emphasis  laying  her 
hand  on  SOPHY'S  shoulder)  ?  Believe  me,  Sophy,  woman 
has  but  to  choose  between  ruling  and  serving,  but  the 
utmost  joy  of  power  is  a  worthless  possession  if  the 
mightier  joy  of  being  slave  to  the  man  we  love  be  denied 
us. 

SOPHY.  A  truth,  dear  lady,  which  I  could  least  of  all 
have  expected  to  hear  from  your  lips  ! 

LADY  M.  And  wherefore,  Sophy  ?  Does  not  woman 
show,  by  her  childish  mode  of  swaying  the  sceptre  of 
power,  that  she  is  only  fit  to  go  in  leading-strings  !  Have 
not  my  fickle  humors  —  my  eager  pursuit  of  wild  dissa- 
pation  —  betrayed  to  you  that  I  sought  in  these  to  stifle 
the  still  wilder  throbbings  of  my  heart? 

SOPHY  (starting  back  with  surprise).  This  from  you, 
my  lady  ? 

LADY  'M..  (continuing  with  increasing  energy).  Appease 
these  throbbings.  Give  me  the  man  in  whom  my  thoughts 
are  centered  —  the  man  I  adore,  without  whom  life  were 


28  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

worse  than  death.  Let  me  but  hear  from  his  lips  that 
the  tears  of  love  with  which  my  eyes  are  bedewed  outvie 
the  gems  that  sparkle  in  my  hair,  and  I  will  throw  at  the 
feet  of  the  prince  his  heart  and  his  dukedom,  and  flee 
to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  with  the  man  of  my 
love ! 

SOPHY  (looking  at  her  in  alarm).  Heavens  !  my  lady  ! 
control  your  emotion 

LADY  M.  (in  surprise).  You  change  color !  To  what 
have  I  given  utterance?  Yet,  since  I  have  said  thus 
much,  let  me  say  still  more  —  let  my  confidence  be  a 
pledge  of  your  fidelity,  —  I  will  tell  you  all. 

SOPHY  (looking  anxiously  around).  I  fear  my  lady  — 
I  dread  it  —  I  have  heard  enough  ! 

LADY  M.  This  alliance  with  the  major  —  you,  like  the 
rest  of  the  world,  believe  to  be  the  result  of  a  court 
intrigue  —  Sophy,  blush  not  —  be  not  ashamed  of  me  — 
it  is  the  work  of  —  my  love  ! 

SOPHY.     Heavens  !    As  I  suspected  ! 

LADY  M.  Yes,  Sophy,  they  are  all  deceived.  The 
weak  prince  —  the  diplomatic  baron  —  the  silly  marshal 
—  each  and  all  of  these  are  firmly  convinced  that  this 
marriage  is  a  most  infallible  means  of  preserving  me  to 
the  prince,  and  of  uniting  us  still  more  firmly!  But  this 
will  prove  the  very  means  of  separating  us  forever,  and 
bursting  asunder  these  execrable  bonds.  The  cheater 
cheated — outwitted  by  a  weak  woman.  Ye  yourselves 
are  leading  me  to  the  man  of  my  heart  —  this  was  all  I 
sought.  Let  him  but  once  be  mine  —  be  but  mine  — 
then,  oh,  then,  a  long  farewell  to  all  this  despicable 
pomp ! 

SCENE  II.  —  An  old  valet  of  the  DUKE'S,  with  a  casket  of 
jewels.      The  former. 

VALET.  His  serene  highness  begs  your  ladyship's 
acceptance  of  these  jewels  as  a  nuptial  present.  They 
have  just  arrived  from  Venice. 

LADY  M.  (opens  the  casket  and  starts  back  in  astonish- 
ment). What  did  these  jewels  cost  the  duke? 

VALET.    Nothing ! 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  9 

LADY  M.  Nothing!  Are  you  beside  yourself? 
(retreating  a  step  or  two.)  Old  man  !  you  fix  on  me  a  look 
as  though  you  would  pierce  me  through.  Did  you  say 
these  precious  jewels  cost  nothing? 

VALET.  Yesterday  seven  thousand  children  of  the 
land  left  their  homes  to  go  to  America  —  they  pay  for 
all. 

LADY  M.  (sets  the  casket  suddenly  down,  and  paces  up 
and  down  the  room  ;  after  a  pause,  to  the  VALET).  What 
distresses  you,  old  man  ?  you  are  weeping ! 

VALET  (wiping  his  eyes,  and  trembling  violently). 
Yes,  for  these  jewels.  My  two  sons  are  among  the 
number. 

LADY  M.     But  they  went  not  by  compulsion  ? 

VALET  (laughing  bitterly).  Oh!  dear  no!  they  were 
all  volunteers !  There  were  certainly  some  few  forward 
lads  who  pushed  to  the  front  of  the  ranks  and  inquired 
of  the  colonel  at  what  price  the  prince  sold  his  subjects 
per  yoke,  upon  which  our  gracious  ruler  ordered  the  regi- 
ments to  be  marched  to  the  parade,  and  the  malcontents 
to  be  shot.  We  heard  the  report  of  the  muskets,  and  saw 
brains  and  blood  spurting  about  us,  while  the  whole  band 
shouted  —  "  Hurrah  for  America  !  " 

LADY  M.  And  I  heard  nothing  of  all  this!  saw 
nothing! 

VALET.  N"o,  most  gracious  lady,  because  you  rode 
off  to  the  bear-hunt  with  his  highness  just  at  the  moment 
the  drum  was  beating  for  the  march.  'Tis  a  pity  your 
ladyship  missed  the  pleasure  of  the  sight  —  here,  crying 
children  might  be  seen  following  their  wretched  father  — 
there,  a  mother  distracted  with  grief  was  rushing  forward 
to  throw  her  tender  infant  among  the  bristling  bayonets 
—  here,  a  bride  and  bridegroom  were  separated  with  the 
sabre's  stroke  — and  there,  graybeards  were  seen  to  stand 
in  despair,  and  fling  their  very  crutches  after  their  sons 
in  the  New  World — and,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  the 
drums  were  beating  loudly,  that  the  prayers  and  lamenta- 
tions might  not  reach  the  Almighty  ear. 

LADY  M.  (rising  in  violent  emotion).  Away  with 
these  jewels  —  their  rays  pierce  my  bosom  like  the  flames 
of  hell.  Moderate  your  grief,  old  man.  Your  children 


30  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

shall  be  restored  to  you.  You  shall  again  clasp  them  to 
your  bosom. 

VALET  (with  warmth).  Yes,  heaven  knows!  We 
shall  meet  again !  As  they  passed  the  city  gates  they 
turned  round  and  cried  aloud  :  "  God  bless  our  wives  and 
children  —  long  life  to  our  gracious  sovereign.  At  the 
day  of  judgment  we  shall  all  meet  again  !  " 

LADY  M.  (walks  up  and  down  the  room  in  great  agita- 
tion). Horrible!  most  horrible ! — and  they  would  per- 
suade me  that  I  had  dried  up  all  the  tears  in  the  land. 
Now,  indeed,  my  eyes  are  fearfully  opened!  Go  —  tell 
the  prince  that  I  will  thank  him  in  person  !  (As  the  valet 
is  going  she  drops  the  purse  into  his  hat.)  And  take 
this  as  a  recompense  for  the  truth  you  have  revealed 
to  me. 

VALET  (throws  the  purse  with  contempt  on  the  table). 
Keep  it,  with  your  other  treasures.  \_Exit. 

LADY  M.  (looking  after  him  in  astonishment).  Sophy, 
follow  him,  and  inquire  his  name.  His  sons  shall  be 
restored  to  him.  (SOPHY  goes.  LADY  MILFORD  becomes 
absorbed  in  thought.  Pause.  Then  to  SOPHY  as  she  re- 
turns.) Was  there  not  a  report  that  some  town  on  the 
frontier  had  been  destroyed  by  fire,  and  four  hundred 
families  reduced  to  beggary  ?  (She  rings.) 

SOPHY.  What  has  made  your  ladyship  just  think  of 
that  ?  Yes  —  such  was  certainly  the  fact,  and  most  of 
these  poor  creatures  are  either  compelled  to  serve  their 
creditors  as  bondsmen,  or  are  dragging  out  their  miser- 
able days  in  the  depths  of  the  royal  silver  mines. 

Enter  a  SERVANT.  What  are  your  ladyship's  com- 
mands? 

LADY  M.  (giving  him  the  case  of  jewels).  Carry  this 
to  my  treasurer  without  delay.  Let  the  jewels  b«  sold 
and  the  money  distributed  among  the  four  hundred  fami- 
lies who  were  ruined  by  the  fire. 

SOPHY.  Consider,  my  lady,  the  risk  you  run  of  dis- 
pleasing his  highness. 

LADY  M.  (with  dignity).  Should  I  encircle  my  brows 
with  the  curses  of  his  subjects  ?  (Makes  a  sign  to  the 
servant,  who  goes  away  with  the  jeioel  case.)  Would st 
thou  have  me  dragged  to  the  earth  by  the  dreadful 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  31 

weight  of  the  tears  of  misery?  Nay!  Sophy,  it  is  bet- 
ter far  to  wear  false  jewels  on  the  brow,  and  to  have  the 
consciousness  of  a  good  deed  within  the  breast ! 

SOPHY.  But  diamonds  of  such  value !  Why  not 
rather  give  some  that  are  less  precious  ?  Truly,  my  lady, 
it  is  an  unpardonable  act. 

LADY  M.  Foolish  girl !  For  this  deed  more  brilliants 
and  pearls  will  flow  for  me  in  one  moment  than  kings 
ever  wore  in  their  richest  diadems !  Ay,  and  infinitely 
more  beautiful ! 

SERVANT  enters.    Major  von  Walter! 

SOPHY  (running  hastily  to  the  help  of  LADY  MILFORD, 
who  seems  fainting).  Heavens,  my  lady,  you  change 
color ! 

LADY  M.  The  first  man  who  ever  made  me  tremble. 
(To  the  SERVANT.)  lam  not  well  —  but  stay  —  what 

said  the  major  ?  —  how  ? O  Sophy !  I  look  sadly  ill, 

do  I  not? 

SOPHY.     I  entreat  you,  my  lady,  compose  yourself. 

SERVANT.  Is  it  your  ladyship's  wish  that  I  should 
deny  you  to  the  major? 

LADY  M.  (hesitating).  Tell  him  —  I  shall  be  happy 
to  see  him.  (Exit  SERVANT.)  What  shall  I  say  to  him, 
Sophy  ?  how  shall  I  receive  him  ?  I  will  be  silent  —  alas  ! 
I  fear  he  will  despise  my  weakness.  "He  will  —  ah,  me  ! 
what  sad  forebodings  oppress  my  heart !  You  arc  going 
Sophy!  stay,  yet  —  no,  no  —  he  comes  —  yes,  stay,  stay 
with  me 

SOPHY.    Collect  yourself,  my  lady,  the  major 

SCENE  III. —  FERDINAND  VON  WALTER.      The  former. 

FERD.  (with  a  slight  bow).  I  hope  I  do  not  interrupt 
your  ladyship  ? 

LADY  M.  (with  visible  emotion).  Not  at  all,  baron  — 
not  in  the  least. 

FEED.  I  wait  on  your  ladyship,  at  the  command  of 
my  father. 

LADY  M.     Therein  I  am  his  debtor. 

FERD.  And  I  am  charged  to  announce  to  you  that 
our  marriage  is  determined  on.  Thus  far  I  fulfil  the 
commission  of  my  father. 


32  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

LADY  M.  (changing  color  and  trembling).  And  not  of 
your  own  heart? 

FEED.  Ministers  and  panders  have  no  concern  with 
hearts. 

LADY  M.  (almost  speechless  with  emotion}.  And  you 
yourself  —  have  you  nothing  to  add  ? 

FERD.  (looking  at  SOPHY).     Much  !  my  lady,  much  ! 

LADY  M.  (motions  to  SOPHY  to  withdraw).  May  I  beg 
you  to  take  a  seat  by  my  side  ? 

FEED.     I  will  be  brief,  lady. 

LADY  M.     Well ! 

FERD.     I  am  a  man  of  honor  ! 

LADY  M.     Whose  worth  I  know  how  to  appreciate. 

FERD.     I  am  of  noble  birth  ! 

LADY  M.     Noble  as  any  in  the  land  ! 

FERD.     A  soldier ! 

LADY  M.  (in  a  soft,  affectionate  manner).  Thus  far 
you  have  only  enumerated  advantages  which  you  share 
in  common  with  many  others.  Why  are  you  so  silent 
regarding  those  noble  qualities  which  are  peculiarly  your 
own  ? 

FERD.  (coldly}.     Here  they  would  be  out  of  place. 

LADY  M.  (with  increasing  agitation).  In  what  light 
am  I  to  understand  this  prelude? 

FERD.  (slowly,  and  with  emphasis') .  As  the  protest  of 
the  voice  of  honor  —  should  you  think  proper  to  enforce 
the  possession  of  my  hand  ! 

LADY  M.  (starting  with  indignation)  Major  von 
Walter!  What  language  is  this? 

FERD.  (calmly).  The  language  of  my  heart  —  of  my 
unspotted  name  —  and  of  this  true  sword. 

LADY  M.  Your  sword  was  given  to  you  by  the 
prince. 

FERD.  'Twas  the  state  which  gave  it,  by  the  hands  of 
the  prince.  God  bestowed  on  me  an  honest  heart.  My 
nobility  is  derived  from  a  line  of  ancestry  extending 
through  centuries. 

LADY  M.     But  the  authority  of  the  prince 

FERD.  (with  icarmth).  Can  he  subvert  the  laws  of  hu- 
manity, or  stamp  glory  on  our  actions  as  easily  as  he 
stamps  value  on  the  coin  of  his  realm  ?  He  himself  is 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  33 

not  raised  above  the  laws  of  honor,  although  he  may 
stifle  its  whispers  with  gold  —  and  shroud  his  infamy  in 
robes  of  ermine  !  But  enough  of  this,  lady  !  —  it  is  too 
late  now  to  talk  of  blasted  prospects  —  or  of  the  desecra- 
tion of  ancestry  —  or  of  that  nice  sense  of  honor  — 
girded  on  with  my  sword  —  or  of  the  world's  opinion. 
All  these  I  am  ready  to  trample  under  foot  as  soon  as 
you  have  proved  to  me  that  the  reward  is  not  inferior  to 
the  sacrifice. 

LADY  M.  (in  extreme  distress  turning  away).  Major  ! 
I  have  not  deserved  this  ! 

FEED,  (taking  her  hand).  Pardon  me,  lady  —  we  arc 
without  witnesses.  The  circumstance  which  brings  us 
together  to-day  —  and  only  to-day — justifies  me,  nay, 
compels  me,  to  reveal  to  you  my  most  secret  feelings.  1 
cannot  comprehend,  lady,  how  a  being  gifted  with  so 
much  beauty  and  spirit  —  qualities  which  a  man  cannot 
fail  to  admire  —  could  throw  herself  away  on  a  prince  in- 
capable of  valuing  aught  beyond  her  mere  person — and 
yet  not  feel  some  visitings  of  shame,  when  she  steps  forth 
to  offer  her  heart  to  a  man  of  honor  ! 

LADY  M.  (looking  at  him  with  an  air  of  pride).  Say 
on,  sir,  without  reserve. 

FKRD.  You  call  yourself  an  Englishwoman  —  pardon 
me,  lady,  I  can  hardly  believe  you.  The  free-born  daughter 
of  the  freest  people  under  heaven  —  a  people  too  proud 
to  imitate  even  foreign  virtues  —  would  surely  never 
have  sold  herself  to  foreign  vices  !  It  is  not  possible,  lady, 
that  you  should  be  a  native  of  Britain,  unless  indeed 
your  heart  be  as  much  below  as  the  sons  of  Britannia 
vaunt  theirs  to  be  above  all  others  ! 

LADY  M.     Have  you  done,  sir? 

FERD.  Womanly  vanity  —  passions  —  temperament 
—  a  natural  appetite  for  pleasure  —  all  these  might, 
perhaps,  be  pleaded  in  extenuation  —  for  virtue  often 
survives  honor  —  and  many  who  once  trod  the  paths  of 
infamy  have  subsequently  reconciled  themselves  to  so- 
ciety by  the  performance  of  noble  deeds,  and  have  thus 
thrown  a  halo  of  glory  round  their  evil  doings  —  but  if 
this  were  so,  whence  comes  the  monstrous  extortion  that 
oppresses  the  people  with  a  weight  never  before 


34  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

known  ?     This  I  would  ask  in  the  name  of  my  father- 
land  —  and  now,  lady,  I  have  done ! 

LADY  M.  (with  gentleness  and  dignity).  This  is  the 
first  time,  Baron  vou  Walter,  that  words  such  as  these 
have  been  addressed  to  me  —  and  you  are  the  only  man 
to  whom  I  would  in  return  have  vouchsafed  an  answer. 
Your  rejection  of  my  hand  commands  my  esteem.  Your 
invectives  against  my  heart  have  my  full  forgiveness,  for 
I  will  not  believe  you  sincere,  since  he  who  dares  hold 
such  language  to  a  woman,  that  could  ruin  him  in  an  in- 
stant —  must  either  believe  that  she  possesses  a  great 
and  noble  heart  —  or  must  be  the  most  desperate  of 
madmen.  That  you  ascribe  the  misery  of  this  land  to 
me  may  He  forgive,  before  whose  throne  you,  and  I,  and 
the  prince  shall  one  day  meet !  But,  as  in  my  person 
you  have  insulted  the  daughter  of  Britain,  so  in  vindica- 
tion of  my  country's  honor  you  must  hear  my  ex- 
culpation. 

FERD.  (leaning  on  his  sword).  Lady,  I  listen  with 
interest. 

LADY  M.  Hear,  then,  that  which  I  have  never  yet 
breathed  to  mortal,  and  which  none  but  yourself  will  ever 
learn  from  my  lips.  I  am  not  the  low  adventurer  you 
suppose  me,  sir  !  Nay  !  did  I  listen  to  the  voice  of  pride, 
I  might  even  boast  myself  to  be  of  royal  birth  ;  I  am 
descended  from  the  unhappy  Thomas  Norfolk,  who  paid 
the  penalty  of  his  adherence  to  the  cause  of  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots,  by  a  bloody  death  on  the  scaffold.  My  father, 
who,  as  royal  chamberlain,  had  once  enjoyed  his  sovereign's 
confidence,  was  accused  of  maintaining  treasonable  rela- 
tions with  France,  and  was  condemned  and  executed  by  a 
decree  of  the  Parliament  of  Great  Britain.  Our  estates 
were  confiscated,  and  our  family  banished  from  their 
native  soil.  My  mother  died  on  the  day  of  my  father's 
execution,  and  I  — then  a  girl  of  fourteen  —  fled  to  Ger- 
many with  one  faithful  attendant.  A  casket  of  jewels, 
and  this  crucifix,  placed  in  my  bosom  by  my  dying  mother, 
were  all  my  fortune  ! 

[FERD.,  absorbed  in  thought,  surveys  LADY  MILFORD 
with  looks  of  compassion  and  sympathy. 

LADY  M.  (continuing  with  increased  emotion}.     With- 


LOVE  AND  INTRIGUE.  35 

out  a  name  —  without  protection  or  property — a  foreigner 
and  an  orphan,  I  reached  Hamburg.  I  had  learnt  noth- 
ing but  a  little  French,  and  to  run  my  fingers  over  the 
embroidery  frame,  or  the  keys  of  my  harpsichord.  But, 
though  I  was  ignorant  of  all  useful  arts,  I  had  learnt 
full  well  to  feast  off  gold  and  silver,  to  sleep  beneath 
silken  hangings,  to  bid  attendant  pages  obey  my  voice, 
and  to  listen  to  the  honeyed  words  of  flattery  and  adula- 
tion. Six  years  passed  away  in  sorrow  and  in  sadness  — 
the  remnant  of  my  scanty  means  was  fast  melting  away 

—  my  old  and  faithful  nurse  was  no  more  —  and  —  and 
then  it  was  that  fate  brought  your  sovereign  to  Hamburg. 
I  was  walking  beside  the  shores  of  the  Elbe,  wondering, 
as  I  gazed  on  its  waters,  whether  they  or  my  sorrows 
were  the  deeper,  when  the  duke  crossed  my  path.     He 
followed  me,  traced  me  to  my  humble  abode,  and,  casting 
himself  at  my  feet,  vowed  that  he  loved  me.    (She  pauses, 
and,  after  struggling  with  her  emotion,  continues  in  a 
voice  choked  by  tears.)     All   the  images   of   my  happy 
childhood   were  revived   in  hues  of   delusive  brightness 

—  while  the  future  lowered  before  me  black  as  the  grave. 
My  heart  panted  for  communion  with  another — and  I 
sank  into  the  arms  opened  to  receive  me !     ( Turning 
away.)     And  now  you  condemn  me  ! 

FERD.  (greatly  agitated,  follows  her  and  leads  her  back). 
Lady!  heavens!  what  do  I  hear!  What  have  I  done? 
The  guilt  of  my  conduct  is  unveiled  in  all  its  deformity ! 
It  is  impossible  you  should  forgive  me. 

LADY  M.  (endeavoring  to  overcome  her  emotion) .  Hear 
me  on  !  The  prince,  it  is  true,  overcame  my  unprotected 
youth,  but  the  blood  of  the  Howards  still  glowed  within 
my  veins,  and  never  ceased  to  reproach  me ;  that  I,  the 
descendant  of  royal  ancestors,  should  stoop  to  be  a 
prince's  paramour  !  Pride  and  destiny  still  contended  in 
my  bosom,  when  the  duke  brought  me  hither,  where 
scenes  the  most  revolting  burst  upon  my  sight!  The 
voluptuousness  of  the  great  is  an  insatiable  hyena  —  the 
craving  of  whose  appetite  demands  perpetual  victims. 
Fearfully  had  it  laid  this  country  waste —  separating 
bridegroom  and  bride  —  and  tearing  asunder  even  the 
holy  bonds  of  marriage.  Here  it  had  destroyed  the 


36  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

tranquil  happiness  of  a  whole  family  —  there  the  blight- 
ing pest  had  seized  on  a  young  and  inexperienced  heart, 
and  expiring  victims  called  down  bitter  imprecations  on 
the  heads  of  the  undoers.  It  was  then  that  I  stepped  forth 
between  the  lamb  and  the  tiger,  and,  in  a  moment  of 
dalliance,  extorted  from  the  duke  his  royal  promise  that 
this  revolting  licentiousness  should  cease. 

FERD.  (pacing  the  room  in  violent  agitation).  No 
more,  lady  !  No  more  ! 

LADY  M.  This  gloomy  period  was  succeeded  by  one 
still  more  gloomy.  The  court  swarmed  with  French  and 
Italian  adventui-ers  —  the  royal  sceptre  became  the  play- 
thing of  Parisian  harlots,  and  the  people  writhed  and  bled 
beneath  their  capricious  rule.  Each  had  her  day.  I  saw 
them  sink  before  me,  one  by  one,  for  I  was  the  most 
skilful  coquette  of  all !  It  was  then  that  I  seized  and 
wielded  the  tyrant's  sceptre  whilst  he  slumbered  volup- 
tuously in  my  embrace  —  then,  Walter,  thy  country,  for 
the  first  time,  felt  the  hand  of  humanity,  and  reposed  in 
confidence  on  my  bosom.  (A  pause,  during  which  she 
gazes  upon  him  with  tenderness.)  Oh  !  that  the  man,  by 
whom,  of  all  others,  I  least  wish  to  be  misunderstood, 
should  compel  me  to  turn  braggart  and  parade  my  unob- 
trusive virtues  to  the  glare  of  admiration  !  Walter,  I 
have  burst  open  the  doors  of  prisons  —  I  have  cancelled 
death-warrants  and  shortened  many  a  frightful  eternity 
upon  the  galleys.  Into  wounds  beyond  my  power  to  heal 
I  have  at  least  poured  soothing  balsam.  I  have  hurled 
mighty  villains  to  the  earth,  and  oft  with  the  tears  of  a 
harlot  saved  the  cause  of  innocence  from  impending  ruin. 
Ah  !  young  man,  how  sweet  were  then  my  feelings  !  How 
proudly  did  these  actions  teach  my  heart  to  support 
the  reproaches  of  my  noble  blood  !  And  now  comes 
the  man  who  alone  can  repay  me  for  all  that  I  have 
suffered  —  the  man,  whom  perhaps  my  relenting  destiny 
created  as  a  compensation  for  former  sorrows  —  the  man, 
whom  with  ardent  affection,  I  already  clasped  in  my 
dreams. 

FEED,  (interupting  her).  Hold,  lady,  hold  !  You  exceed 
the  bounds  of  our  conference  !  You  undertook  to  clear 
yourself  from  reproach,  and  you  make  me  a  criminal.' 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  37 

Spare  me,  I  beseech  you !  Spare  a  heart  already  over- 
whelmed by  confusion  and  remorse  ! 

LADY  M.  (grasping  his  hand}.  You  must  hear  me, 
Walter !  hear  me  now  or  never.  Long  enough  has  the 
heroine  sustained  me ;  now  you  must  feel  the  whole 
weight  of  these  tears!  Mark  me,  Walter!  Should  an 
unfortunate  —  impetuously,  irresistibly  attracted  towards 
you  —  clasp  you  to  her  bosom  full  of  unutterable,  inex- 
tinguishable love  —  should  this  unfortunate  —  bowed 
down  with  the  consciousness  of  shame  —  disgusted  with 
vicious  pleasures  —  heroically  exalted  by  the  inspiration 
of  virtue  —  throw  herself  —  thus  into  your  arms  (embrac- 
ing him  in  an  eager  and  supplicating  manner}  ;  should 
she  do  this,  and  you  still  pronounce  the  freezing  word 
"  Honor  !  "  Should  she  pray  that  through  you  she  might 
be  saved — that  through  you  she  might  be  restored  to 
her  hopes  of  heaven  !  (Turning  away  her  head,  and 
speaking  in  a  hollow,  faltering  voice.)  Or  should  she, 
her  prayer  refused,  listen  to  the  voice  of  despair,  and  to 
escape  from  your  image  plunge  herself  into  yet  more  fear^ 
ful  depths  of  infamy  and  vice 

FEBD.  (breaking  from  her  in  great  emotion).  No,  by 
heaven  !  This  is  more  than  I  can  endure !  Lady,  I  am 
compelled  —  Heaven  and  earth  compels  me  —  to  make 
the  honest  avowal  of  my  sentiments  and  situation. 

LADY  M.  (hastening  from  him).  Oh  !  not  now  !  By 
all  that  is  holy  I  entreat  you  —  spare  me  in  this  dreadful 
moment  when  my  lacerated  heart  bleeds  from  a  thousand 
wounds.  Be  your  decision  life  or  death  —  I  dare  not  — 
I  will  not  hear  it ! 

FEED.  I  entreat  you,  lady  !  I  insist!  What  I  have 
to  say  will  mitigate  my  offence,  and  warmly  plead  your 
forgiveness  for  the  past.  I  have  been  deceived  in  you, 
lady.  I  expected  —  nay,  I  wished  to  find  you  deserving 
my  contempt.  I  came  determined  to  insult  you,  and 
to  make  myself  the  object  of  your  hate.  Happy  would  it 
have  been  for  us  both  had  my  purpose  succeeded !  (He 
pauses ;  then  proceeds  in  a  gentle  and  faltering  voice.) 
Lady,  I  love  !  —  I  love  a  maid  of  humble  birth  — Louisa 
Miller  is  her  name,  the  daughter  of  a  music-master. 
(LADY  M.  turns  away  pale  and  greatly  agitated?)  \ 


38  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

know  into  what  an  abyss  I  plunge  myself ;  but,  though 
prudence  bids  me  conceal  my  passion,  honor  overpowers 
its  precepts,  I  am  the  criminal  —  I  first  destroyed  the 
golden  calm  of  Louisa's  innocence  —  I  lulled  her  heart 
with  aspiring  hopes,  and  surrendered  it,  like  a  betrayer, 
a  prey  to  the  wildest  of  passions.  You  will  bid  me 
remember  my  rank  —  my  birth  —  my  father — schemes 
of  aggrandisement.  But  in  vain  —  I  love!  My  hopes 
become  more  fervent  as  the  breach  widens  between 
nature  and  the  mere  conventions  of  society  —  between 
my  resolution  and  worldly  prejudices!  We  shall  see 
whether  love  or  interest  is  victorious.  (LADY  M.  during 
this  has  retired  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  apartment,  and 
covers  her  face  with  both  hands.  FERDINAND  approaches 
her.}  Have  you  aught  to  answer,  lady? 

LADY  M.  (in  a  tone  of  intense  suffering).  Nothing! 
Nothing !  but  that  you  destroy  yourself  and  me  —  and, 
with  us  yet  a  third. 

FERD.     A  third  ? 

LADY  M.  Never  can  you  marry  Louisa ;  never  can  you 
be  happy  with  me.  We  shall  all  be  the  victims  of  your 
father's  rashness.  I  can  never  hope  to  possess  the  heart 
of  a  hu.sband  who  has  been  forced  to  give  me  his  hand. 

FEED.  Forced,  lady  ?  Forced  V  And  yet  given  ?  Will 
you  enforce  a  hand  without  a  heart  ?  Will  you  tear  from 
a  maiden  a  man  who  is  the  whole  world  to  her  ?  Will  you 
tear  a  maiden  from  a  man  who  has  centered  all  his  hopes 
of  happiness  on  her  alone  ?  Will  you  do  this,  lady  ?  you 
who  but  a  moment  before  were  the  lofty,  noble-minded 
daughter  of  Britain  ? 

LADY  M.  I  will  because  I  must !  (earnestly  and  firmly) . 
My  passions,  Walter,  overcome  my  tenderness  for  you. 
My  honor  has  no  alternative.  Our  union  is  the  talk  of 
the  whole  city.  Every  eye,  every  shaft  of  ridicule  is  bent 
against  me.  'Twere  a  stain  which  time  could  never 
efface  should  a  subject  of  the  prince  reject  my  hand  ! 
Appease  your  father  if  you  have  the  power !  Defend 
yourself  as  you  best  may  !  my  resolution  is  taken.  The 
mine  is  fired  and  I  abide  the  issue. 

\JExit.  FERDINAND  remains  in  speechless  astonishment 
for  some  moments;  then  rushes  wildly  out. 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  39 

SCENE  IV.  —  Miller's  House. 
MILLER  MEETING  LOUISA  AND  MRS.  MILLER. 

MILLER.     Ay  !  ay  !   I  told  you  how  it  would  be ! 

LOUISA  (hastening  to  him  with  anxiety).  What,  father  ? 
What  ? 

MILLER  (running  up  and  down  the  room).  My  cloak, 
there.  Quick,  quick !  I  must  be  beforehand  with  him. 
My  cloak,  I  say!  Yes,  yes!  this  was  just  what  I 
expected  ! 

LOUISA.     For  God's  sake,  father  !  tell  me  ? 

MRS.  M.  What  is  the  matter,  Miller  ?  What  alarms 
you? 

MILLER  (throwing  down  his  wig).  Let  that  go  to  the 
friezer.  What  is  the  matter,  indeed  ?  And  my  beard, 
too,  is  nearly  half  an  inch  long.  What's  the  matter? 
What  do  you  think,  you  old  carrion.  The  devil  has 
broke  loose,  and  you  may  look  out  for  squalls. 

MRS.  M.  There,  now,  that's  just  the  way !  When 
anything  goes  wrong  it  is  always  my  fault. 

MILLER.  Your  fault  ?  Yes,  you  brimstone  fagot !  and 
whose  else  should  it  be  ?  This  very  morning  when  you 
were  holding  forth  about  that  confounded  major,  did 
I  not  say  then  what  would  be  the  consequence?  That 
knave,  Worm,  has  blabbed. 

MRS.  M.  Gracious  heavens  !  But  how  do  you 
know? 

MILLER.  How  do  I  know  ?  Look  yonder !  a  messen- 
ger of  the  minister  is  already  at  the  door  inquiring  for 
the  fiddler. 

LOUISA  (turning  pale,  and  sitting  down).  Oh  !  God  ! 
I  am  in  agony ! 

MILLER.  And  you,  too,  with  that  languishing  air? 
(laughs  bitterly).  But,  right !  Right !  There  is  an  old 
saying  that  where  the  devil  keeps  a  breeding-cage  he  is 
sure  to  hatch  a  handsome  daughter. 

MRS.  M.  But  how  do  you  know  that  Louisa  is  in 
question  ?  You  may  have  been  recommended  to  the 
duke;  he  may  want  you  in  his  orchestra. 

MILLER  (jumping  up,  and  seizing  his  fiddlestick).  May 
the  sulphurous  rain  of  hell  consume  thee!  Orchestra, 


40  LOVE   AND   INTKTGTJE. 

indeed  !  Ay,  where  you,  you  old  procuress,  shall  how! 
the  treble  whilst  my  smarting  back  groans  the  base. 
( Throwing  himself  upon  a  chair.)  Oh  !  God  in  heaven  ! 

LOUISA  (sinks  on  the  sofa,  pale  as  death).  Father ! 
Mother!  Oh!  my  heart  sinks  within  me. 

MILLER  (starting  iip  with  anger).  But  let  me  only  lay 
hands  on  that  infernal  quill-driver!  I'll  make  him  skip  — 
be  it  in  this  world  or  the  next;  if  I  don't  pound  him  to  a 
jelly,  body  and  soul ;  if  I  don't  write  all  the  Ten  Com* 
mandments,  the  seven  Penitential  Psalms,  the  five  books 
of  Moses,  and  the  whole  of  the  Prophets  upon  his  rascally 
hide  so  distinctly  that  the  blue  hieroglyphics  shall  be 
legible  at  the  day  of  judgment  —  if  I  don't,  may  I 

MRS.  M.  Yes,  yes,  curse  and  swear  your  hardest  2 
That's  the  way  to  frighten  the  devil !  Oh,  dear  !  Oh, 
dear!  Oh,  gracious  heavens !  What  shall  we  do?  Who 
can  advise  us?  Speak,  Miller,  speak;  this  silence  dis- 
tracts me !  (She  runs  screaming  up  and  down  the 
room.) 

MILLER.  I  will  instantly  to  the  minister !  I  will  open 
my  mouth  boldly,  and  tell  him  all  from  beginning  to  end. 
You  knew  it  before  me,  and  ought  to  have  given  me 
a  hint  of  what  was  going  on!  The  girl  might  yet  have 
been  advised.  It  might  still  have  been  time  to  save  her ! 
But,  no !  There  was  something  for  your  meddling  and 
making,  and  you  must  needs  add  fuel  to  the  fire.  Now 
you  have  made  your  bed  you  may  lie  on  it.  As  you 
have  brewed  so  you  may  drink  ;  I  shall  take  my  daughter 
under  my  arm  and  be  off  with  her  over  the  borders. 

SCENE  V. 
MILLER,  MRS.  MILLER,  LOUISA,  FERDINAND. 

FERD.  (rushes  in,  terrified,  and  out  of  breath). 
Has  my  father  been  here  ? 

LOUISA  (starts  back  in  horror).  His  father? 
Gracious  heaven  ! 

MRS.  M.  (wringing  her  hands).  The  minister 
here  ?  Then  it's  all  over  with  us  ! 

MILLER  (laughs  bitterly).  Thank  God  !  Thank 
" !  Now  comes  our  benefit ! 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  41 

FEED,  (rushing  towards  LOUISA,  and  clasping  her  in 
his  arms).  Mine  thou  art,  though  heaven  and  hell  were 
placed  between  us ! 

LOUISA.  I  am  doomed  !  Speak,  Ferdinand  !  Did  you 
not  utter  that  dreaded  name?  Your  father? 

FEED.  Be  not  alarmed !  the  danger  has  passed !  I 
have  thee  again !  again  tliou  hast  me  !  Let  me  regain 
my  breath  on  thy  dear  bosom.  It  was  a  dreadful  hour ! 

LOUISA.  What  was  a  dreadful  hour?  Answer  me, 
Ferdinand !  I  die  with  apprehension  ! 

FEED,  (drawing  back,  gazing  upon  her  earnestly,  then 
in  a  solemn  tone).  An  hour,  Louisa,  when  another's 
form  stepped  between  my  heart  and  thee  —  an  hour  in 
which  my  love  grew  pale  before  my  conscience  —  when 
Louisa  ceased  to  be  all  in  all  to  Ferdinand ! 

[LouiSA  sinks  back  upon  her  chair,  and  conceals 

her  face. 

(FEEDINAND  stands  before  her  in  speechless  agitation, 
then  turns  away  from  her  suddenly  and  exclaims),  Never, 
never !  Baroness,  'tis  impossible !  you  ask  too  much ! 
Never  can  I  sacrifice  this  innocence  at  your  shrine.  No, 
by  the  eternal  God !  I  cannot  recall  my  oath,  which 
speaks  to  me  from  thy  soul-thrilling  eyes  louder  than  the 
thunders  of  heaven  !  Behold,  lady !  Inhuman  father, 
look  on  this !  Would  you  have  me  destroy  this  angel  ? 
Shall  my  perfidy  kindle  a  hell  in  this  heavenly  bosom  ? 
(turning  towards  her  with  firmness).  No !  I  will  bear 
her  to  thy  throne,  Almighty  Judge!  Thy  voice  shall 
declare  if  my  affection  be  a  crime.  (He  grasps  her  hand, 
and  raises  her  from  the  sofa.)  Courage,  my  beloved !  — 
thou  hast  conquered  —  and  I  come  forth  a  victor  from 
the  terrible  conflict  ! 

LOUISA.  No,  no,  Ferdinand,  conceal  nothing  from  me ! 
Declare  boldly  the  dreadful  decree !  You  named  your 
father !  You  spoke  of  the  baroness !  The  shivering  of 
death  seizes  my  heart !  'Tis  said  she  is  about  to  be 
married  ! 

FEED,  (quite  overcome,  throws  himself  at  her  feet). 
Yes,  and  to  me,  dear  unfortunate.  Such  is  my  father's 
will! 

LOUISA  (after  a  deep  pause,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  but 


42  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

with  assumed  resignation}.  Well !  Why  am  I  thus 
affrighted  ?  Has  not  my  dear  father  often  told  me  that 
you  never  could  be  mine?  But  I  was  obstinate,  and 
believed  him  not.  (A  second  pause  /  she  falls  weeping 
into  her  father's  arms.)  Father,  thy  daughter  is  thine 
own  again  !  Father,  forgive  me  !  'Twas  not  your  child's 
fault  that  the  dream  was  so  heavenly  —  the  waking  so 
terrible ! 

MILLER.  Louisa!  Louisa!  O  merciful  heaven!  she 
has  lost  her  senses !  My  daughter  !  My  poor  child  ! 
Curses  upon  thy  seducer!  Curses  upon  the  pandering 
mother  who  threw  thee  in  his  way ! 

MBS.  M.  (weeping  on  LOUISA'S  neck).  Daughter,  do  I 
deserve  this  curse?  God  forgive  you,  major!  What 
has  this  poor  lamb  done  that  you  bring  this  misery 
upon  her  ? 

FERD.  (with  resolution) .  I  will  unravel  the  meshes  of 
these  intrigues.  I  will  burst  asunder  these  iron  chains 
of  prejudice.  As  a  free-born  man  will  I  make  my  choice, 
and  crush  these  insect  souls  with  the  colossal  force  of 
my  love !  [  Going. 

LOUISA  (rises  trembling  from  the  sofa,  and  attempts  to 
follow  him).  Stay,  oh,  stay !  Whither  are  you  going  ? 
Father  !  Mother  !  He  deserts  us  in  this  fearful  hour  ! 

MRS.  M.  (hastens  towards  him,  and  detains  him).  The 
president  is  coming  hither?  He  will  ill-use  my  child! 
He  will  ill-use  us  all,  —  and  yet,  major,  you  are  going  to 
leave  us. 

MILLER  (laughs  hysterically).  Leave  us.  Of  course 
he  is  !  What  should  hinder  him  ?  The  girl  has  given 
him  all  she  had.  (Grasping  FERDINAND  with  one  hand, 
and  LOUISA  with  the  other.)  Listen  to  me,  young  gentle- 
man. The  only  way  out  of  my  house  is  over  my  daugh- 
ter's body.  If  you  possess  one  single  spark  of  honor 
await  your  father's  coming ;  tell  him,  deceiver,  how  you 
stole  her  young  and  inexperienced  heart ;  or,  by  the  God 
who  made  me !  (thrusting  LOUISA  towards  him  with 
violence  and  passion  )  you  shall  crush  before  my  eyes  this 
trembling  worm  whom  love  for  you  has  brought  to  shame 
and  infamy  3 

FEBD.  (returns,  and  walks  to  and  fro  in  deep  thought). 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  43 

'Tis  true,  the  President's  power  is  great  —  parental 
authority  is  a  mighty  word  —  even  crimes  claim  respect 
when  concealed  within  its  folds.  He  may  push  that 
authority  far  —  very  far!  But  love  goes  beyond  it. 
Hear  me,  Louisa ;  give  me  thy  hand  !  (clasping  it  firmly). 
As  surely  as  I  hope  for  Heaven's  mercy  in  my  dying  hour, 
I  swear  that  the  moment  which  separates  these  hands 
shall  also  rend  asunder  the  thread  that  binds  me  to  exist- 
ence ! 

LOUISA.  You  terrify  me !  Turn  from  me  I  Your  lips 
tremble  !  Your  eyes  roll  fearfully  ! 

FERD.  Nay,  Louisa !  fear  nothing  !  It  is  not  madness 
which  prompts  my  oath  !  'tis  the  choicest  gift  of  Heaven, 
decision,  sent  to  my  aid  at  that  critical  moment,  when 
an  oppressed  bosom  can  only  find  find  relief  in  some  des- 
perate remedy.  I  love  thee,  Louisa !  Thou  shalt  be 
mine !  'Tis  resolved !  And  now  for  my  father ! 

\_He  rushes  out,  and  is  met  by  the  PRESIDENT. 

SCENE  VI. 

MILLER,  MRS.  MILLER,  LOUISA,  FERDINAND,  PRESIDENT, 
with  SERVANTS. 

PRES.  (as  he  enters').  So !  here  he  is !  (All  start  in 
terror.) 

FERD.  (retiring  a  few  paces).    In  the  house  of  inno- 
cence ! 
'  PRES.     Where  a  son  learns  obedience  to  his  father ! 

FERD.     Permit  me  to 

PRES.  (interrupting  him,  turns  to  MILLER).  The 
father,  I  presume? 

MILLER.     I  am  Miller,  the  musician. 

PRES.  (to  MRS.  MILLER).     And  you,  the  mother  ? 

MRS.  M.     Yes,  alas  !  her  unfortunate  mother  ! 

FERD.  (to  MILLER.)  Father,  take  Louisa  to  her 
chamber  —  she  is  fainting. 

PRES.  An  unnecessary  precaution  !  I  will  soon  arouse 
her.  (  To  LOUISA.)  How  long  have  you  been  acquainted 
with  the  President's  son  ? 

LOUISA  (with  timidity).     Of  the  President's  son  I  have 


44  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

never  thought.  Ferdinand  von  Walter  has  paid  his 
addresses  to  me  since  November  last. 

FERD.     And  he  adores  her  ! 

PRES.  (to  LOUISA).  Has  he  given  you  any  assurance  of 
his  love  ? 

FERD.  But  a  few  minutes  since,  the  most  solemn,  and 
God  was  my  witness. 

PRES.  (to  his  son  angrily).  Silence!  You  shall  have 
opportunity  enough  of  confessing  your  folly.  (  To  LOUISA.) 
I  await  your  answer. 

LOUISA.     He  swore  eternal  love  to  me. 

FERD.     And  I  will  keep  my  oath. 

PRES.  (to  FERDINAND).  Must  I  command  your  silence? 
(To  LOUISA).  Did  you  accept  his  rash  vows? 

LOUISA  (with  tenderness).  I  did,  and  gave  him  mine 
in  exchange. 

FERD.  (resolutely).     The  -bond  is  irrevocable 

PRES.  (to  FERDINAND).  If  you  dare  to  interrupt  me 
again  I'll  teach  you  better  manners.  (To  LOUISA,  sneer- 
ingly.)  And  he  paid  handsomely  every  time,  no  doubt? 

LOUISA.     I  do  not  understand  your  question. 

PRES.  (with  an  insulting  laugh).  Oh,  indeed  !  Well, 
I  only  meant  to  hint  that  —  as  everything  has  its  price 
—  I  hope  you  have  been  more  provident  than  to  bestow 
your  favors  gratis  —  or  perhaps  you  were  satisfied  with 
merely  participating  in  the  pleasure?  Eh?  how  was  it? 

FERD.  (infuriated).  Hell  and  confusion  !  What  does 
this  mean  ? 

LOUISA  (to  FERDINAND,  with  dignity  and  emotion). 
Baron  von  Walter,  now  you  are  free ! 

FERD.  Father !  virtue  though  clothed  in  a  beggar's 
garb  commands  respect ! 

PRES  (laughing  aloud).  A  most  excellent  joke  !  The 
father  is  commanded  to  honor  his  son's  strumpet! 

LOUISA.  Oh  !  Heaven  and  earth  !  (Sinks  down  in  a 
swoon.) 

FERD.  (drawing  his  sicord).  Father,  you  gave  me  life, 
and,  till  now,  I  acknowledged  your  claim  on  it.  That 
debt  is  cancelled.  (Replaces  his  sword  in  the  scabbard, 
and  points  to  LOUISA.)  There  lies  the  bond  of  filial  duty 
torn  to  atoms ! 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  45 

MILLER  (who  has  stood  apart  trembling,  now  comes  for- 
ward, by  turns  gnashing  his  teeth  in  rage,  and  shrinking 
back  in  terror).  Your  excellency,  the  child  is  the  father's 
second  self.  No  offence,  I  hope  !  Who  strikes  the  child 
hits  the  father  —  blow  for  blow  —  that's  our  rule  here. 
No  offence,  I  hope ! 

MRS.  M.  God  have  mercy  on  us  !  Now  the  old  man 
has  begun  —  we  shall  all  catch  it  with  a  vengeance ! 

PRES.  (who  has  not  'understood  what  MILLER  said). 
What?  is  the  old  pander  stirred  up?  We  shall  have 
something  to  settle  together  presently,  Mr.  Pander! 

MILLER.  You  mistake  me,  my  lord.  My  name  is 
Miller,  at  your  service  for  an  adagio  —  but,  as  to  lady- 
birds, I  cannot  serve  you.  As  long  as  there  is  such  an 
assortment  at  court,  we  poor  citizens  can't  afford  to  lay 
in  stock  !  No  offence,  I  hope  ! 

MRS.  M.  For  Heaven's  sake,  man,  hold  your  tongue ! 
would  you  ruin  both  wife  and  child  ? 

FERD.  (to  his  father).  You  play  but  a  sorry  part 
here,  my  lord,  and  might  well  have  dispensed  with  these 
witnesses. 

MILLER  (coming  nearer,  with  increasing  confidence). 
To  be  plain  and  above  board  —  No  offence,  I  hope  —  your 
excellency  may  have  it  all  your  own  way  in  the  Cabinet 
—  but  this  is  my  house.  I'm  your  most  obedient,  very 
humble  servant  when  I  wait  upon  you  with  a  petition, 
but  the  rude,  unmannerly  intruder  I  have  the  right  to 
bundle  out  —  no  offence,  I  hope  ! 

PRES.  (pale  with  anger,  and  approaching  MILLER). 
What  ?  What's  that  you  dare  to  utter? 

MILLER  (retreating  a  few  steps).  Only  a  little  bit  of 
my  mind  sir  —  no  offence,  I  hope  ! 

PRES.  (furiously).  Insolent  villain !  Your  imperti- 
nence shall  procure  you  a  lodging  in  prison.  (To  his 
servants).  Call  in  the  officers  of  justice !  Away ! 
(Some  of  the  attendants  go  out.  The  PRESIDENT  paces 
the  stage  with  a  furious  air.)  The  father  shall  to 
prison ;  the  mother  and  her  strumpet  daughter  to  the 
pillory !  Justice  shall  lend  her  sword  to  my  rage  !  For 
this  insult  will  I  have  ample  amends.  Shall  such  con- 
temptible creatures  thwart  my  plans,  and  set  father  and 


46  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

son  against  each  other  with  impunity  ?  Tremble,  mis 
creants!  I  will  glut  my  hate  in  your  destruction  —  the 
whole  brood  of  you  —  father,  mother,  and  daughter  shall 
be  sacrificed  to  my  vengeance  ! 

FERD.  (to  MILLER,  in  a  collected  and  firm  manner}. 
Oh!  not  so  !  Fear  not,  friends  !  I  am  your  protector. 
(  Turning  to  the  PRESIDENT,  with  deference).  Be  not  so 
rash,  father  !  For  your  own  sake  let  me  beg  of  you  no 
violence.  There  is  a  corner  of  my  heart  where  the  name 
of  father  has  never  yet  been  heard.  Oh !  press  not  into 
that! 

PRES.  Silence,  unworthy  boy !  Rouse  not  my  anger 
to  greater  fury ! 

MILLER  (recovering  from  a  stupor).  Wife,  look  you 
to  your  daughter!  I  fly  to  the  duke.  His  highness' 
tailor  —  God  be  praised  for  reminding  me  of  it  at  this 
moment  —  learns  the  flute  of  me  —  I  cannot  fail  of  suc- 
cess. (Is  hastening  off.) 

PRES.  To  the  duke,  will  you  ?  Have  you  forgotten 
that  I  am  the  threshold  over  which  you  must  pass,  or 
failing,  perish  ?  To  the  duke,  you  fool?  Try  to  reach 
him  with  your  lamentations,  when,  reduced  to  a  living 
skeleton,  you  lie  buried  in  a  dungeon  five  fathoms  deep, 
where  light  and  sound  never  enter ;  where  darkness 
goggles  at  hell  with  gloating  eyes !  There  gnash  thy 
teeth  in  anguish  ;  there  rattle  thy  chains  in  despair,  and 
groan,  "  Woe  is  me  !  This  is  beyond  human  endurance  ! " 

SCENE  VII. 
Officers  of  Justice  —  the  former. 

FERD.  (flies  to  LOUISA,  who,  overcome  with  fear,  faints 

in  his  arms.)    Louisa  ! Help,  for  God's  sake !    Terror 

overpowers  her ! 

[MILLER,  catching  up  his  cane  and  putting  on  his 

hat,  prepares  for  defense.    MRS.  MILLER  throws 

herself  on  her  knees  before  the  PRESIDENT. 

PRES.    (to    the    officers,    showing   his    star).     Arrest 

these  offenders  in   the  duke's  name.     Boy,  let  go  that 

strumpet  I     Fainting  or  not  —  when  once  her  neck  is 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  47 

fitted  with  the  iron  collar  the  mob  will  pelt  her  till  she 
revives. 

MRS.  MILLER.  Mercy,  your  excellency!  Mercy  I 
mercy ! 

MILLER  (snatching  her  from  the  ground  with  violence}. 
Kneel  to  God,  you  howling  fool,  and  not  to  —  villains  — 
since  I  must  to  prison  any  way ! 

PEES,  (biting  his  lips.)  You  may  be  out  in  your 
reckoning,  scoundrel !  There  are  still  gallows  to  spare  ! 
(To  the  officers.)  Must  I  repeat  my  orders? 

[  They  approach  LOUISA  —  FERDINAND  places  himself 
before  her. 

FERD.  (fiercely).  Touch  her  who  dare !  (He  draws 
his  sword  and  flourishes  it.)  Let  no  one  presume  to  lay 
a  finger  on  her,  whose  life  is  not  well  insured.  (To  the 
PRESIDENT.)  As  you  value  your  own  safety,  father,  urge 
me  no  further ! 

PRES.  (to  the  officers  in  a  threatening  voice).  At  your 
peril,  cowards !  (  They  again  attempt  to  seize  LOUISA.) 

FERD.  Hell  and  furies  !  Back,  I  say !  (Driving  them 
away.)  Once  more,  father,  I  warn  you  —  have  some 
thought  for  your  own  safety !  Drive  me  not  to  extremity ! 

PRES.  (enraged  to  the  officers).  Scoundrels !  Is  this 
your  obedience  ?  (The  officers  renew  their  efforts.) 

FERD.  Well,  if  it  must  be  so  (attacking  and  wounding 
several  of  them),  Justice  forgive  me ! 

PRES.  (exasperated  to  the  utmost).  Let  me  see  whether 
I,  too,  must  feel  your  weapon !  (He  seizes  LOUISA  and 
delivers  her  to  an  officer.) 

FERD.  (laughing  bitterly).  Father !  father !  Your 
conduct  is  a  galling  satire  upon  Providence,  who  has  so 
ill  understood  her  people  as  to  make  bad  statesmen  of 
excellent  executioners  ! 

PRES.  (to  the  officers).    Away  with  her! 

FERD.  Father,  if  I  cannot  prevent  it,  she  must  stand  in 
the  pillory  — but  by  her  side  will  also  stand  the  son  of 
the  president.  Do  you  still  insist  ? 

PRES.  The  more  entertaining  will  be  the  exhibition. 
Away  with  her ! 

FEED.  I  will  pledge  the  honor  of  an  officer's  sword 
for  her.  Do  you  still  insist  ? 


48  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

PKES.  Your  sword  is  already  familiar  with  disgrace. 
Away  !  away !  You  know  my  will. 

FEBD.  (wrests  LOUISA  from  the  officer  and  holds  her 
with  one  arm,  with  the  other  points  his  sword  at  her 
bosom.J  Father,  rather  than  tamely  see  my  wife  branded 
with  infamy  I  will  plunge  this  sword  into  her  bosom. 
Do  you  still  insist  ? 

PBES.     Do  it,  if  the  point  be  sharp  enough  ! 

FEED,  (releases  LOUISA,  and  looks  wildly  towards  heaven). 
Be  thou  witness,  Almighty  God,  that  I  have  left  no 
human  means  untried  to  save  her!  Forgive  me  now  if  I 
have  recourse  to  hellish  means.  While  you  are  leading 
her  to  the  pillory  (speaking  loudly  in  the  PRESIDENT'S 
ear),  I  will  publish  throughout  the  town  a  pleasant  his- 
tory of  how  a  president's  chair  may  be  gained  ! 

\Exit. 

PRES.  (as  if  thunder-struck').  How?  What  said  he? 
Ferdinand !  Release  her  instantly !  (.Rushes  after  his 
son.) 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

Room  at  the  President's.    Enter  PRESIDENT  and  WORM. 

PRES.     That  was  an  infernal  piece  of  business ! 

WORM.  Just  what  I  feared,  your  excellency.  Oppo- 
sition may  inflame  the  enthusiast,  but  never  converts 
him. 

PRES.  I  had  placed  my  whole  reliance  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  this  attempt.  I  made  no  doubt  but  if  the  girl 
were  once  publicly  disgraced,  he  would  be  obliged  as  an 
officer  and  a  gentleman  to  resign  her. 

WORM.  An  admirable  idea! — had  you  but  succeeded 
in  disgracing  her. 

PRES.  And  yet  —  when  I  reflect  on  the  matter  coolly 
—  I  ought  not  to  have  suffered  myself  to  be  over- 
awed. It  was  a  threat  which  he  never  could  have  meant 
seriously. 

WORM.  Be  not  too  certain  of  that!  There  is  no 
folly  too  gross  for  excited  passion !  You  say  that  the 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  49 

baron  has  always  looked  upon  government  with  an  eye  of 
disapprobation.  I  can  readily  believe  it.  The  principles 
which  he  brought  with  him  from  college  are  ill-suited  to 
our  atmosphere.  What  have  the  fantastic  visions  of 
personal  nobility  and  greatness  of  soul  to  do  in  court, 
where  'tis  the  perfection  of  wisdom  to  be  great  and  little 
by  turns,  as  occasion  demands  ?  The  baron  is  too  young 
and  too  fiery  to  take  pleasure  in  the  slow  and  crooked 
paths  of  intrigue.  That  alone  can  give  impulse  to  his 
ambition  which  seems  glorious  and  romantic ! 

PKES.  (impatiently}.  But  how  will  these  sagacious 
remarks  advance  our  affairs  ? 

WORM.  They  will  point  out  to  your  excellency  where 
the  wound  lies,  and  so,  perhaps,  help  you  to  find  a 
remedy.  Such  a  character  —  pardon  the  observation  — 
ought  never  to  have  been  made  a  confidant,  or  should 
never  have  been  roused  to  enmity.  He  detests  the  means 
by  which  you  have  risen  to  power !  Perhaps  it  is  only 
the  son  that  has  hitherto  sealed  the  lips  of  the  betrayer! 
Give  him  but  a  fair  opportunity  for  throwing  off  the 
bonds  imposed  upon  him  by  nature !  only  convince  him, 
by  unrelenting  opposition  to  his  passion,  that  you  are  no 
longer  an  affectionate  father,  and  that  moment  the  duties 
of  a  patriot  will  rush  upon  him  with  irresistible  force ! 
Nay,  the  high-wrought  idea  of  offering  so  unparalleled  a 
sacrifice  at  the  shrine  of  justice  might  of  itself  alone 
have  charms  sufficient  to  reconcile  him  to  the  ruin  of  a 
parent ! 

PRES.  Worm !  Worm !  To  what  a  horrible  abyss  do 
you  lead  me ! 

WORM.  Never  fear,  my  lord,  I  will  lead  you  back  in 
safety  !  May  I  speak  without  restraint  ? 

PRES.  (throwing  himself  into  a  seat).  Freely,  as  felon 
with  felon. 

WORM.  Forgive  me,  then.  It  seems  to  me  that  you 
have  to  ascribe  all  your  influence  as  president  to  the 
courtly  art  of  intrigue ;  why  not  resort  to  the  same  means 
for  attaining  your  ends  as  a  father?  I  well  remember 
with  what  seeming  frankness  you  invited  your  prede- 
cessor to  a  game  at  piquet,  and  caroused  half  the  night 
with  him  over  bumpers  of  Burgundy  ;  and  yet  it  was  the 


&9  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

same  night  on  which  the  great  mine  you  had  planned  to 
annihilate  him  was  to  explode.     Why  did  you  make  a 

Eublic  exhibition  of  enmity  to  the  major?  You  should 
y  no  means  have  let  it  appear  that  you  knew  anything 
of  his  love  affair.  You  should  have  made  the  girl  the 
object  of  your  attacks  and  have  preserved  the  affection 
of  your  son ;  like  the  prudent  general  who  does  not  en- 
gage the  prime  of  the  enemy's  force  but  creates  disaffec- 
tion among  the  ranks  ? 

PRES.     How  could  this  have  been  effected  ? 

WORM.  In  the  simplest  manner  —  even  now  the  game 
is  not  entirely  lost !  Forget  for  a  time  that  you  are  a 
father.  Do  not  contend  against  a  passion  which  opposi- 
tion only  renders  more  formidable.  Leave  me  to  hatch, 
from  the  heat  of  their  own  passions,  the  basilisk  which 
shall  destroy  them. 

PRES.     I  am  all  attention. 

WORM.  Either  my  knowledge  of  human  character  is 
very  small,  or  the  major  is  as  impetuous  in  jealousy  as  in 
love.  Make  him  suspect  the  girl's  constancy,  —  whether 
probable  or  not  does  not  signify.  One  grain  of  leaven 
will  be  enough  to  ferment  the  whole  mass. 

PRES.     But. where  shall  we  find  that  grain? 

WORM.  Now,  then,  I  come  to  the  point.  But  first 
explain  to  me  how  much  depends  upon  the  major's  com- 
pliance. How  far  is  it  of  consequence  that  the  romance 
with  the  music-master's  daughter  should  be  brought 
to  a  conclusion  and  the  marriage  with  Lady  Milford 
effected  ? 

PRES.  How  can  you  ask  me,  Worm  ?  If  the  match 
with  Lady  Milford  is  broken  off  I  stand  a  fair  chance  of 
losing  my  whole  influence ;  on  the  other  hand,  if  I  force 
the  major's  consent,  of  losing  my  head. 

WORM  (with  animation).  Now  have  the  kindness  to 
listen  to  me.  The  major  must  be  entangled  in  a  web. 
Your  whole  power  must  be  employed  against  his  mistress. 
We  must  make  her  write  a  love-letter,  address  it  to 
a  third  party,  and  contrive  to  drop  it  cleverly  in  the  way 
of  the  major. 

PRES.  Absurd  proposal !  As  if  she  would  consent  to 
sign  her  own  death-warrant. 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  51 

WORM.  She  must  do  so  if  you  will  but  let  me  follow 
my  own  plan.  I  know  her  gentle  heart  thoroughly;  she 
has  but  two  vulnerable  sides  by  which  her  conscience  can 
be  attacked ;  they  are  her  father  and  the  major.  The 
latter  is  entirely  out  of  the  question  ;  we  must,  therefore, 
make  the  most  of  the  musician. 

PRES.     In  what  way? 

WORM.  From  the  description  your  excellency  gave  me 
of  what  passed  in  his  house  nothing  can  be  easier  than  to 
terrify  the  father  with  the  threat  of  a  criminal  process. 
The  person  of  his  favorite,  and  of  the  keeper  of  the  seals, 
is  in  some  degree  the  representative  of  the  duke  himself, 
and  he  who  offends  the  former  is  guilty  of  treason  towards 
the  latter.  At  any  rate  I  will  engage  with  these  pretences 
to  conjure  up  such  a  phantom  as  shall  scare  the  poor  devil 
out  of  his  seven  senses. 

PRES.  But  recollect,  Worm,  the  affair  must  not  be 
carried  so  far  as  to  become  serious. 

WORM.  Nor  shall  it.  It  shall  be  carried  no  further 
than  is  necessary  to  frighten  the  family  into  our  toils. 
The  musician,  therefore,  must  be  quietly  arrested.  To 
make  the  necessity  yet  more  urgent,  we  may  also  take 
possession  of  the  mother.;  —  and  then  we  begin  to  talk  of 
criminal  process,  of  the  scaffold,  and  of  imprisonment  for 
life,  and  make  the  daughter's  letter  the  sole  condition  of 
the  parent's  release. 

PRES.  Excellent !  Excellent !  Now  I  begin  to 
understand  you  ! 

WORM.  Louisa  loves  her  father  —  I  might  say  even  to 
adoration  !  The  danger  which  threatens  his  life,  or  at 
least  his  freedom  —  the  reproaches  of  her  conscience  for 
being  the  cause  of  his  misfortunes  —  the  impossibility  of 
ever  becoming  the  major's  wife  —  the  confusion  of  her 
brain,  which  I  take  upon  myself  to  produce  —  all  these 
considerations  make  our  plan  certain  of  success.  She 
must  be  caught  in  the  snare. 

PRES.  But  my  son — will  he  not  instantly  get  scent 
of  it  ?  Will  it  not  make  him  yet  more  desperate? 

WORM.  Leave  that  to  me,  your  excellency!  The  old 
folks  shall  not  be  set  at  liberty  till  they  and  their  daugh- 
tei  have  taken  the  most  solemn  oath  to  keep  the  whole 


52  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

transaction    secret,    and    never    to   confess   the    decep- 
tion. 

PRES.  An  oath !  Ridiculous !  What  restraint  can 
an  oath  be? 

WORM.  None  upon  us,  my  lord,  but  the  most  binding 
upon  people  of  their  stamp.  Observe,  how  dexterously 
by  this  measure  we  shall  both  reach  the  goal  of  our  de- 
sires. The  girl  loses  at  once  the  affection  of  her  lover, 
and  her  good  name ;  the  parents  will  lower  their  tone, 
and,  thoroughly  humbled  by  misfortune,  will  esteem  it  an 
act  of  mercy,  if,  by  giving  her  my  hand,  I  re-establish 
their  daughter's  reputation. 

PRES.  (shaking his  head  and  smiling).  Artful  villain  ! 
I  confess  myself  outdone  —  no  devil  could  spin  a  finer 
snare !  The  scholar  excels  his  master.  The  next  question 
is,  to  whom  must  the  letter  be  addressed  —  with  whom 
to  accuse  her  of  having  an  intrigue  ? 

WORM.  It  must  necessarily  be  some  one  who  has 
all  to  gain  or  all  to  lose  by  your  son's  decision  in  this 
affair. 

PRES.  (after  a  moment's  reflection)  I  can  think  of  no 
one  but  the  marshal. 

WORM  (shrugs  his  shoulders).  The  marshal  !  He 
would  certainly  not  be  my  choice  were  I  Louisa  Miller. 

PRES.  And  why  not  ?  What  a  strange  notion  !  A 
man  who  dresses  in  the  height  of  fashion  —  who  carries 
with  him  an  atmosphere  of  eau  de  mille  fleurs  and  musk 
—  who  can  garnish  every  silly  speech  with  a  handful  of 
ducats  —  could  all  this  possibly  fail  to  overcome  the  del- 
icacy of  a  tradesman's  daughter?  No,  no,  my  good 
friend,  jealousy  is  not  quite  so  hard  of  belief.  I  shall 
send  for  the  marshal  immediately.  (Kings.) 

WORM.  While  your  excellency  takes  care  of  him,  and 
of  the  fiddler's  arrest,  I  will  go  and  indite  the  aforesaid 
letter. 

PRES.  (seats  himself  at  his  writing-table).  Do  so;  and, 
as  soon  as  it  is  ready,  bring  it  hither  for  my  perusal.. 

[Exit  WORM. 
[  The  PRESIDENT,   having  written,  rises  and  hands 

the  paper  to  a  servant  who  enters. 
See  this  arrest  executed  without  a  moment's  delay,  and 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  53 

let  Marshal  von  Kalb  be  informed  that  I  wish  to  see  him 
immediately. 

SERV.  The  marshal's  carriage  has  just  stopped  at  your 
lordship's  door. 

PRES.  So  much  the  better  —  as  for  the  arrest,  let  it 
be  managed  with  such  precaution  that  no  disturbance 
arise. 

SERV.     I  will  take  care,  my  lord. 

PRES.  You  understand  me  ?  The  business  must  be 
kept  quite  secret. 

SEEV.     Your  excellency  shall  be  obeyed. 

{Exit  SERVANT. 

SCENE  II. 
The  PRESIDENT  —  MARSHALL  KALB. 

MARSHAL  (hastily}.  I  have  just  looked  in,  en  passant, 
my  dear  friend  !  How  are  you  ?  How  do  you  get  on  ? 
We  are  to  have  the  grand  opera  Dido  to-night !  Such  a 
conflagragation  ! — a  whole  town  will  be  in  flames!  — 
you  will  come  to  the  blaze  of  course  —  eh? 

PRES.  I  have  conflagration  enough  in  my  own  house, 
one  that  threatens  the  destruction  of  all  I  possess.  Be 
seated,  my  dear  marshal.  You  arrive  very  opportunely 
to  give  me  your  advice  and  assistance  in  a  certain  busi- 
ness which  will  either  advance  our  fortunes  or  utterly 
ruin  us  both ! 

MARSHAL.     Don't  alarm  me  so,  my  dear  frind  ! 

PRES.  As  I  said  before,  it  must  exalt  or  ruin  us  en- 
tirely !  You  know  my  project  respecting  the  major  and 
Lady  Mil  ford  —  you  are  not  ignorant  how  necessary  this 
union  is  to  secure  both  our  fortunes  !  Marshal,  our  plans 
threaten  to  come  to  naught.  My  son  refuses  to  marry 
her! 

MARSHAL.  Refuses !  Refuses  to  marry  her  ?  But, 
my  goodness  !  I  have  published  the  news  through  the 
whole  town.  The  union  is  the  general  topic  of  conver- 
sation. 

PEES.  Then  you  will  be  talked  of  by  all  the  town  as 
a  spreader  of  false  reports,  —  in  short,  Ferdinand  loves 
another. 


54  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

MARSHAL.    Pooh  !  you  are  joking  !   As  if  that  were  an 
obstacle  ? 

PRES.    With  such  an  enthusiast  a  most  insurmountable 


one 


MARSHAL.  Can  he  be  mad  enough  to  spurn  his  good- 
fortune  ?  Eh  ? 

PRES.  Ask  him  yourself  and  you'll  hear  what  he  will 
answer. 

MARSHAL.     But,  mon  Dieuf  what  can  he  answer? 

PRES.  That  he  will  publish  to  the  world  the  crime  by 
which  we  rose  to  power  —  that  he  will  denounce  our 
forged  letters  and  receipts  —  that  he  will  send  us  both  to 
the  scaffold.  That  is  what  he  can  answer. 

MARSHAL.     Are  you  out  of  your  mind  ? 

PRES.  Nay,  that  is  what  he  has  already  answered  ? 
He  was  actually  on  the  point  of  putting  these  threats 
into  execution  ;  and  it  was  only  by  the  most  abject  sub- 
mission that  I  could  persuade  him  to  abandon  his  design. 
What  say  you  to  this,  marshal? 

MARSHAL  (with  a  look  of  bewildered  stupidity}.  I  am 
at  my  wits'  end  ! 

PRES.  That  might  have  blown  over.  But  my  spies 
have  just  brought  me  notice  that  the  grand  cupbearer, 
Von  Bock,  is  on  the  point  of  offering  himself  as  a  suitor 
to  her  ladyship. 

MARSHAL.  You  drive  me  distracted  !  Whom  did  you 
say  ?  Von  Bock  ?  Don't  you  know  that  we  are  mortal 
enemies  ?  And  don't  you  know  why  ? 

PRES.     The  first  word  that  I  ever  heard  of  it! 

MARSHAL.  My  dear  count!  You  shall  hear  —  your 
hair  will  stand  on  end  !  You  must  remember  the  famous 
court  ball  —  it  is  now  just  twenty  years  ago.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  English  country-dances  were  introduced  — 
you  remember  how  the  hot  wax  trickled  from  the  great 
chandelier  on  Count  Meerschaum's  blue  and  silver  dom- 
ino. Surely,  you  cannot  have  forgotten  tlint  affair! 

PEES.  Who  could  forget  so  remarkable  a  circum- 
stance ! 

MARSHAL.  Well,  then,  in  the  heat  of  the  dance 
Princess  Amelia  lost  her  garter.  The  whole  ball,  as  you 
may  imagine,  was  instantly  thrown  into  confusion.  Von 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  55 

Bock  and  myself  —  we  were  then  fellow-pages  —  crept 
through  the  whole  saloon  in  search  of  the  garter.  At 
length  I  discovered  it.  .Von  Bock  perceives  my  good- 
fortune —  rushes  forward  —  tears  it  from  my  hands,  and, 
just  fancy — presents  it  to  the  princess,  and  so  cheated 
me  of  the  honor  I  had  so  fortunately  earned.  What  do 
you  think  of  that  ? 

PKKS.     'Twas  most  insolent ! 

MARSHAL.  I  thought  I  should  have  fainted  upon  the 
spot.  A  trick  so  malicious  was  beyond  the  powers  of 
mortal  endurance.  At  length  I  recovered  myself;  and, 
approaching  the  princess,  said,  —  "  Von  Bock,  'tis  true, 
was  fortunate  enough  to  present  the  garter  to  your  high- 
ness ;  but  he  who  h'rst  discovered  that  treasure  finds  his 
reward  in  silence,  and  is  dumb!" 

PEES.  Bravo,  marshal !  Admirably  said  !  Most  ad- 
mirable ! 

MARSHAL.  And  is  dumb !  But  till  the  day  of  judg- 
ment will  I  remember  his  conduct —  the  mean,  sneaking 
sycophant !  And  as  if  that  were  not  aggravation  enough, 
he  actually,  as  we  were  struggling  on  the  ground  for  the 
garter,  rubbed  all  the  powder  from  one  side  of  my 
peruke  with  his  sleeve,  and  ruined  me  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. 

PRES.  This  is  the  man  who  will  marry  Lady  Milford, 
and  consequently  soon  take  the  lead  at  court. 

MARSHAL.  You  plunge  a  dagger  in  my  heart !  But 
why  must  he?  Why  should  he  marry  her?  Why  he? 
Where  is  the  necessity  ? 

PRES.  Because  Ferdinand  refuses  her,  and  there  is 
no  other  candidate. 

MARSHAL.  But  is  there  no  possible  method  of  obtain- 
ing your  son's  consent?  Let  the  measure  be  ever  so  ex- 
travagant or  desperate  —  there  is  nothing  to  which  I 
should  not  willingly  consent  in  order  to  supplant  the 
hated  Von  Bock. 

PRES.  I  know  but  one  means  of  accomplishing  this, 
and  that  rests  entirely  with  you. 

MARSHAL.  With  me?    Name  it,  my  dear  count,  name  it! 

PRES.  You  must  set  Ferdinand  and  his  mistress 
against  each  other. 


56  LOVE    AXD   INTRIGUE. 

MARSHAL.  Against  each  other?  How  do  you  mean* 
—  and  how  would  that  be  possible. 

PEES.  Everything  is  ours  could  we  make  him  suspect 
the  girl. 

MARSHAL.     Ah,  of  theft,  you  mean  ? 

PRES.  Pshaw! — he  would  never  believe  that!  No, 
no — I  mean  that  she  is  carrying  on  an  intrigue  with 
another. 

MARSHAL.     And  this  other,  who  is  he  to  be  ? 

PRES.     Yourself  ! 

MARSHAL.  How?  Must  I  be  her  lover?  Is  she  of 
noble  birth  ? 

PRES.  What  signifies  that  ?  What  an  idea !  —  she  is 
the  daughter  of  a  musician. 

MARSHAL.     A  plebeian  ? —  that  will  never  do ! 

PRES.  What  will  never  do  ?  Nonsense,  man  !  Who 
in  the  name  of  wonder  would  think  of  asking  a  pair  of 
rosy  cheeks  for  their  owner's  pedigree? 

MARSHAL.  But  consider,  my  dear  count,  a  married 
man  !  And  my  reputation  at  court ! 

PRES.  Oh  !  that's  quite  another  thing !  I  beg  a 
thousand  pardons,  marshal ;  I  was  not  aware  that  a  man 
of  unblemished  morals  held  a  higher  place  in  your  esti- 
mation than  a  man  of  power  !  Let  us  break  up  our  con- 
ference. 

MARSHAL.  Be  not  so  hasty,  count.  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  that. 

PRES.  (coldly.)  No  —  no  !  You  are  perfectly  right. 
I,  too,  am  weary  of  office.  I  shall  throw  up  the  game, 
tender  my  resignation  to  the  duke,  and  congratulate  Von 
Bock  on  his  accession  to  the  premiership.  This  duchy  is 
not  all  the  world. 

MARSHAL.  And  what  am  I  to  do  ?  It  is  very  fine  for 
you  to  talk  thus  !  You  are  a  man  of  learning  !  But  I  — 
mon  Dieu  !  What  shall  I  be  if  his  highness  dismisses  me  ? 

PRES.     A  stale  jest !  —  a  thing  out  of  fashion  ! 

MARSHAL.  I  implore  you,  my  dearest,  my  most  valued 
friend.  Abandon  those  thoughts.  I  will  consent  to 
everything  ! 

PRES.  Will  you  lend  your  name  to  an  assignation  to 
which  this  Louisa  Miller  shall  invite  you  in  writing  ? 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  57 

MARSHAL.     Well,  in  God's  name  let  it  be  so  ! 

PBES.  And  drop  the  letter  where  the  major  cannot 
fail  to  find  it. 

MARSHAL.  For  instance,  on  the  parade,  where  I  can 
let  it  fall  as  if  accidentally  in  drawing  out  my  hand- 
kerchief. 

PRES.  And  when  the  baron  questions  you  will  you  as- 
sume the  character  of  a  favored  rival? 

MARSHAL.  Mort  de  ma  vie  !  I'll  teach  him  manners  ! 
I'll  cure  him  of  interfering  in  my  amours ! 

PRES.  Good  !  Now  you  speak  in  the  right  key.  The 
letter  shall  be  written  immediately!  Come  in  the  even- 
ing to  receive  it,  and  we  will  talk  over  the  part  you  are 
to  play. 

MARSHAL.  I  will  be  with  you  the  instant  I  have  paid 
sixteen  visits  of  the  very  highest  importance.  Permit  me, 
therefore,  to  take  my  leave  without  delay.  ( Going.) 

PRES.  (rings).  I  reckon  upon  your  discretion,  mar- 
shal. 

MARSHAL  (calls  back).  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  you  know 
me  !  [Exit  MARSHAL. 

SCENE  III.     The  PRESIDENT  and  WORM. 

WORM.  The  music-master  and  his  wife  have  been  ar- 
rested without  the  least  disturbance.  Will  your  excel- 
lency read  this  letter  ? 

PRES.  (having  read  it).  Excellent  !  Excellent,  my 
dear  secretary  !  poison  like  this  would  convert  health  it- 
self into  jaundiced  leprosy.  The  marshal,  too,  has  taken 
the  bait.  Now  then  away  with  my  proposals  to  the  father, 
and  then  lose  no  time  with  the  daughter. 

\_Exeunt  on  different  sides. 

SCENE  IV.  —     Room  in  MILLER'S  House. 
LOFISA  and  FERDINAND. 

LOUISA.  Cease,  I  implore  you !  I  expect  no  more 
days  of  happiness.  All  my  hopes  are  levelled  with  the 
dust. 

FERD.    All  mine  are  exalted  to  heaven  !    My  father's 


58  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

passions  are  roused  !  He  will  direct  his  whole  artillery 
against  us !  He  will  force  me  to  become  an  unnatural 
son.  I  will  not  answer  for  my  filial  duty.  Rage  and 
despair  will  wring  from  me  the  dark  secret  that  my 
father  is  an  assassin  !  The  son  will  deliver  the  parent 
into  the  hands  of  the  executioner.  This  is  a  moment  of 
extreme  danger,  and  extreme  danger  alone  could  prompt 
my  love  to  take  so  daring  a  leap !  Hear  me,  Louisa !  A 
thought,  vast  and  immeasurable  as  my  love,  has 
arisen  in  my  soul — Thou,  Louisa,  and  7",  and  Love! 
Lies  not  a  whole  heaven  within  this  circle  ?  Or  dost  thou 
feel  that  there  is  still  something  wanting? 

LOUISA.  Oh!  cease!  No  more!  I  tremble  to  think 
what  you  would  say. 

FERD.  If  we  have  no  longer  a  claim  upon  the 
world,  why  should  we  seek  its  approbation  ?  Why  ven- 
ture where  nothing  can  be  gained  and  all  may  be  lost? 
Will  thine  eyes  sparkle  less  brightly  reflected  by  the 
Baltic  waves  than  by  the  waters  of  the  Rhine  or  the  Elbe  ? 
Where  Louise  loves  me  there  is  my  native  land  !  Thy 
footsteps  will  make  the  wild  and  sandy  desert  far  more 
attractive  than  the  marble  halls  of  my  ancestors.  Shall 
we  miss  the  pomp  of  cities  ?  Be  we  where  we  may, 
Louisa,  a  sun  will  rise  and  a  sun  will  set  —  scenes  before 
which  the  most  glorious  achievements  of  art  grow  pale 
and  dim  !  Though  we  serve  God  no  more  in  his  conse- 
crated churches,  yet  the  night  shall  spread  her  solemn 
shadows  round  us;  the  changing  moon  shall  hear  our 
confession,  and  a  glorious  congregation  of  stars  join  in  our 
prayers!  Think  you  our  talk  of  love  can  ever  be  ex- 
hausted !  Oh,  no  !  One  smile  from  Louisa  were  a  theme 
for  centuries  —  the  dream  of  life  will  be  over  ere  I  can 
exhaust  the  charms  of  a  single  tear. 

LOUISA.     And  hast  thou  no  duty  save  that  of  love? 

FEED,  (embracing  her).  None  so  sacred  as  thy  peace 
of  mind ! 

LOUISA  (very  seriously).  Cease,  then,  and  leave  me.  I 
have  a  father  who  possesses  no  treasure  save  one  only 
daughter.  To-morrow  he  will  be  sixty  years  old  —  that 
he  will  fall  a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of  the  President  is 
most  certain ! 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  59 

FEED,  (interrupting  her}.  He  shall  accompany  us. 
Therefore  no  more  objections,  my  beloved.  I  will  go  and 
convert  my  valuables  into  gold,  and  raise  money  on  my 
father's  credit !  It  is  lawful  to  plunder  a  robber,  and  are 
not  his  treasures  the  price  for  which  he  has  sold  his 
country  ?  This  night,  when  the  clock  strikes  one,  a 
carriage  will  stop  at  your  door  —  throw  yourself  into  it, 
and  we  fly ! 

LOUISA.  Pursued  by  your  father's  curse  !  a  curse,  un- 
thinking one,  which  is  never  pronounced  in  vain  even  by 
murderers  — which  the  avenging  angel  hears  when  uttered 
by  a  malefactor  in  his  last  agony  —  which,  like  a  fury,  will 
fearfully  pursue  the  fugitives  from  shore  to  shore  !  No, 
my  beloved !  If  naught  but  a  crime  can  preserve  you  to 
me,  I  still  have  courage  to  resign  you ! 

FEED,  (mutters  gloomily).     Indeed  ! 

LOUISA.  Resign  you  ?  Oh !  horrible  beyond  all 
measure  is  the  thought.  Horrible  enough  to  pierce  the 
immortal  spirit  and  pale  the  glowing  cheeks  of  joy ! 
Ferdinand  !  To  resign  you !  Yet  how  can  one  resign 
what  one  never  possessed  ?  Your  heart  is  the  property 
of  your  station.  My  claim  was  sacrilege,  and,  shudder- 
ing, I  withdraw  it ! 

FEED,  (with  convulsed  features,  and  biting  his  under- 
lip).  You  withdraw  it! 

LOUISA.  Nay!  look  upon  me,  dearest  Ferdinand. 
Gnash  not  your  teeth  so  bitterly!  Come,  let  my  example 
rouse  your  slumbering  courage.  Let  me  be  the  heroine 
of  this  moment.  Let  me  restore  to  a  father  his  lost  son. 
I  will  renounce  a  union  which  would  sever  the  bonds  by 
which  society  is  held  together,  and  overthrow  the  land- 
marks of  social  order.  I  am  the  criminal.  My  bosom 
has  nourished  proud  and  foolish  wishes,  and  my  present 
misery  is  a  just  punishment.  Oh  !  leave  me  then  the 
sweet,  the  consoling  idea  that  mine  is  the  sacrifice. 
Canst  thou  deny  me  this  last  satisfaction  ?  (FEBDINAND, 
stupefied  with  agitation  and  anger,  seizes  a  violin  and 
strikes  a  few  notes  upon  it;  and  then  tears  away  the 
strings,  dashes  the  instrument  upon  the  ground,  and, 
stamping  it  to  pieces,  bursts  into  a  loud  laugh.)  Walter ! 
God  in  Heaven !  What  mean  you  ?  Be  not  thus  un- 


60  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

manned  !  This  hour  requires  fortitude ;  it  is  the  hour  of 
separation  !  You  have  a  heart,  dear  Walter;  I  know  that 
heart  —  warm  as  life  is  your  love  —  boundless  and  im- 
measurable—  bestow  it  on  one  more  noble,  more  worthy 
—  she  need  not  envy  the  most  fortunate  of  her  sex  ! 
(Striving  to  repress  her  tears.)  You  shall  see  me  no 
more  !  Leave  the  vain  disappointed  girl  to  bewail  her 
sorrow  in  sad  and  lonely  seclusion ;  where  her  tears  will 
flow  unheeded.  Dead  and  gone  are  all  my  hopes  of  hap- 
piness in  this  world  ;  yet  still  shall  I  inhale  ever  and 
anon  the  perfumes  of  the  faded  wreath  !  (Giving  him 
her  trembling  hand,  while  her  face  is  turned  away.)  Baron 
Walter,  farewell ! 

FERD.  (recovering  from  the  stupor  in  which  he  was 
plunged).  Louisa,  I  fly !  Do  you  indeed  refuse  to  follow 
me  ? 

LOUISA  (who  has  retreated  to  the  further  end  of  the  apart- 
ment, conceals  her  countenance  with  her  hands).  My  duty 
bids  me  stay,  and  suffer. 

FEED.  Serpent !  thou  liest  —  some  other  motive  chains 
thee  here ! 

LOUISA  (in  a  tone  of  the  most  heartfelt  sorrow).  Encour- 
age that  belief.  Haply  it  may  make  our  parting  more 
supportable. 

FEED.  What?  Oppose  freezing  duty  to  fiery  love! 
And  dost  thou  think  to  cheat  me  with  that  delusion  ? 
Some  rival  detains  thee  here,  and  woe  be  to  thee  and  him 
should  my  suspicions  be  confirmed  1  \_Exit. 

SCENE  V. 

LOUISA  (she  remains  for  some  time  motionless  in  the 
seat  upon  which  she  has  thrown  herself.  At  length  she 
rises,  comes  forward,  and  looks  timidly  around).  Where 
can  my  parents  be?  My  father  promised  to  return  in  a 
few  minutes;  yet  full  five  dreadful  hours  hnve  passed 

since   his    departure.      Should    any    accident good 

Heavens !  What  is  come  over  me  ?  Why  does  my 
heart  palpitate  so  violently  ?  (Here  WORM  enters,  and 
remains  standing  unobserved  in  the  background.}  It  can 
be  nothing  real.  'Tis  but  the  terrible  delusion  of  my 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  61 

over-heated  blood.    When  once  the  soul  is  wrapped  in 
terror  the  eye  behold  spectres  in  every  shadow. 

SCENE  VI. 
LOUISA  and  WORM. 

WORM  (approaches  her).    Good  evening,  miss. 

LOUISA.  Heavens  !  who  speaks  !  (Perceives  him,  and 
starts  back  in  terror.)  Ha!  Dreadful!  dreadful!  I  fear 
some  dire  misfortune  is  even  now  realizing  the  fore- 
bodings of  my  soul !  (To  WORM,  with  a  look  of  disdain.) 
Do  you  seek  the  president  ?  He  is  no  longer  here. 

WORM.     'Tis  you  I  seek,  miss  ! 

LOUISA.  I  wonder,  then,  that  you  did  not  direct  your 
steps  towards  the  market-place. 

WORM.     What  should  I  do  there  ? 

LOUISA.     Release  your  betrothed  from  the  pillory. 

WORM.     Louisa,  you  cherish  some  false  suspicion 

LOUISA  (sharply  interrupting  him).  What  is  your 
business  with  me  ? 

WORM.     I  come  with  a  message  from  your  father. 

LOUISA  (agitated).  From  my  father?  Oh!  Where  is 
my  father? 

WORM.     Where  he  would  fain  not  be  ! 

LOUISA.  Quick,  quick,  for  God's  sake  !  Oh !  my  fore- 
boding heart !  Where  is  my  father ! 

WORM.     In  prison,  if  you  needs  must  know  ! 

LOUISA  (with  a  look  towards  heaven).  This,  too! 
This,  too  !  In  prison,  said  you?  And  why  in  prison? 

WORM.     It  is  the  duke's  order. 

LOUISA.     The  duke's? 

WORM.  Who  thinking  his  own  dignity  offended  by  the 
insults  offered  to  the  person  of  his  representative 

LOUISA.     How?    How?     Oh  ye  Almighty  Powers  ! 

WORM.  Has  resolved  to  inflict  the  most  exemplary 

punishment. 

LOUISA.  This  was  still  wanting !  This !  Yes,  in  truth. 
I  now  feel  that  my  heart  does  love  another  besides  Ferdi- 
nand !  That  could  not  be  allowed  to  escape !  The 
prince's  dignity  offended  ?  Heavenly  Providence !  Save, 


62  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

oh !  save  my  sinking  faith !  (After  a  moments  pause,  she 
turns  to  WORM.)  And  Ferdinand  ? 

WORST.  Must  choose  between  Lady  Milford's  hand 
and  his  father's  curse  and  disinheritance. 

LOUISA.  Terrible  choice !  —  and  yet  —  yet  is  he  the 
happier  of  the  two.  He  has  no  father  to  lose  —  and  yet 
to  have  none  is  misery  enough !  My  father  imprisoned 
for  treason  —  my  Ferdinand  compelled  to  choose  between 
Lady  Milford's  hand  or  a  parent's  curse  and  disinherit- 
ance !  Truly  admirable !  for  even  villany  so  perfect  is 
perfection  !  Perfection  ?  No  !  something  is  still  wanting 
to  complete  that.  Where  is  my  mother? 

WORM.     In  the  house  of  correction. 

LOUISA  (with  a  smile  of  despair).  Now  the  measure 
is  full!  It  is  full,  and  I  am  free  —  released  from  all 
duties  —  all  sorrows  —  all  joys !  Released  even  from 
Providence !  I  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it !  (A. 
dreadful  pause?)  Have  you  aught  else  to  communicate? 
Speak  freely  —  now  I  can  hear  anything  with  indiffer- 
ence. 

WORM.     All  that  has  happened  you  already  know. 

LOUISA.  But  not  that  which  is  yet  to  happen  !  (An- 
other pause,  during  which  she  surveys  WORM  from  head 
to  foot.)  Unfortunate  man !  you  have  entered  on  a 
melancholy  employment,  which  can  never  lead  you  to 
happiness.  To  cause  misery  to  others  is  sad  enough  — 
but  to  be  the  messenger  of  evil  is  horrible  indeed  — 
to  be  the  first  to  shriek  the  screech-owl's  song,  to  stand 
by  when  the  bleeding  heart  trembles  upon  the  iron  shaft 
of  necessity,  and  the  Christian  doubts  the  existence  of  a 
God  —  Heaven  protect  me  !  Wert  thou  paid  a  ton  of 
gold  for  every  tear  of  anguish  which  thou  must  witness, 
I  would  not  be  a  wretch  like  thee !  What  is  there  yet 
to  happen? 

WORM.     I  know  not. 

LOUISA.  You  pretend  not  to  know?  This  light- 
shunning  embassy  trembles  at  the  sound  of  words,  but 
the  spectre  betrays  itself  in  your  ghastly  visage.  What 
is  there  yet  to  happen?  You  said  the  duke  will  inflict 
upon  him  a  most  exemplary  punishment.  What  call  you 
exemplary  ? 


LOVE   AND  INTKIGUE.  63 

WOKM.    Ask  uie  no  more. 

LOUISA.  Terrible  man!  Some  hangman  must  have 
schooled  thee  !  Else  thou  hadst  not  so  well  learned  to 
prolong  the  torture  of  thy  victim  before  giving  the  finish- 
ing stroke  to  the  agonized  heart !  Speak !  What  fate 
awaits  my  father?  Death  thou  canst  announce  with  a 
laughing  sneer  —  what  then  must  that  be  which  thou 
dost  hesitate  to  disclose?  Speak  out !  Let  me  at  once 
receive  the  overwhelming  weight  of  thy  tidings !  What 
fate  awaits  my  father  ? 

WORM.     A  criminal  process. 

LOUISA.  But  what  is  that  ?  I  am  an  ignorant,  innocent 
girl,  and  understand  but  little  of  your  fearful  terms  of 
law.  What  mean  you  by  a  ci'iininal  process  ? 

WORM.     Judgment  upon  life  or  death. 

LOUISA  (firmly) .     Ah  !     I  thank  you. 

\_Ex,it  hastily  by  a  side  door. 

WORM  (alarmed).  What  means  this?  Should  the 
simpleton  perchance —  confusion!  Surely  she  will  not 

—  I  must  follow    her.      I  am  answerable   for  her  life. 
(As  he  is  going  towards  the  door,  LOUISA  returns,  wrapped 
in  a  cloak.) 

LOUISA.  Your  pardon,  Mr.  Secretary,  I  must  lock  the 
door. 

WORM.     Whither  in  such  haste? 

LOUISA  (passing  him).     To  the  duke. 

WORM  (alarmed,  detains  her).     How?    Whither? 

LOUISA.  To  the  duke.  Do  you  not  hear?  Even  to 
that  very  duke  whose  will  is  to  decide  upon  my  father's 
life  or  death.  Yet  no?  —  'tis  not  his  will  that  decides, 
but  the  will  of  wicked  men  who  surround  his  throne. 
He  lends  naught  to  this  process,  save  the  shadow  of  his 
majesty,  and  his  royal  signature. 

WORM  (with  a  burst  of  laughter).     To  the  duke  ! 

LOUISA.     I  know  the  meaning  of  that  sneering  laugh 

—  you  would  tell  me  that  T  shall  find  no  compassion  there. 
But  though  I  may  meet  (God  preserve  me !)  with  nothing 
but  scorn  —  scorn  at  rny  sorrows  —  yet  will  I  to  the  duke. 
I  have  been  told  that  the  great  never  know  what  misery 
is ;  that  they  fly  from  the  knowledge  of  it.     But  I  will 
teach  the  duke  what  misery  is ;    I  will  paint  to  him,  in 


64  LOVE  AND  INTRIGUE. 

all  the  writhing  agonies  of  death,  what  misery  is ;  I  will 
cry  aloud  in  wailings  that  shall  creep  through  the  very 
marrow  of  his  bones,  what  misery  is  ;  and,  while  at  my 
picture  his  hairs  shall  stand  on  end  like  quills  upon  the 
porcupine,  will  I  shriek  into  his  affrighted  ear,  that  in  the 
hour  of  death  the  sinews  of  these  mighty  gods  of  earth 
shall  shrivel  and  shrink,  and  that  at  the  day  of  judgment 
beggars  and  kings  shall  be  weighed  together  in  the 
same  balance.  (Going.) 

WORM  (ironically).  By  all  means  go  to  the  duke  !  You 
can  really  do  nothing  more  prudent;  I  advise  you  heartily 
to  the  step.  Only  go,  and  I  give  you  my  word  that  the 
duke  will  grant  your  suit. 

LOUISA  (stopping  suddenly).  What  said  you  ?  Do 
you  yourself  advise  the  step ?  (Returns  hastily).  What 
am  I  about  to  do  ?  Something  wicked  surely,  since  this 
man  approves  it  —  how  know  you  that  the  prince  will 
grant  my  suit  ? 

WORM.  Because  he  will  not  have  to  grant  it  unre- 
warded. 

LOUISA.  Not  unrewarded  ?  And  what  price  does  he 
set  on  his  humanity? 

WORM.  The  person  of  the  fair  suppliant  will  be  pay- 
ment enough ! 

LOUISA  (stopping  for  a  moment  in  mute  dismay  —  in  a 
feeble  voice).  Almighty  God  ! 

WORM.  And  I  trust  that  you  will  not  think  your 
father's  life  over-valued  when  'tis  purchased  at  so  gra- 
cious a  price. 

LOUISA  (with  great  indignation).  True,  oh !  true ! 
The  great  are  entrenched  from  truth  behind  their  own 
vices,  safely  as  behind  the  swords  of  cherubims.  The 
Almighty  protect  thee,  father  !  Your  child  can  die  : —  but 
not  sin  for  thee. 

WORM.  This  will  be  agreeable  news  for  the  poor  dis- 
consolate old  man.  "  My  Louisa, "  says  he,  "  lias  bowed 
me  down  to  the  earth  ;  but  my  Louisa  will  raise  me  up 
again. "  I  hasten  to  him  with  your  answer.  (Affects  to 
be  about  to  depart.) 

LOUISA  (flies  after  him  and  holds  him  back).  Stay  ! 
stay!  one  moment's  patience!  How  nimble  this  Satan 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  65 

ia,  when  his  business  is  to  drive  humanity  distracted! 
I  have  bowed  him  to  the  earth !  I  must  raise  him  up 
again !  Speak  to  me  !  Counsel  me  !  What  can  I,  what 
must  I  do  ? 

WORM.     There  is  but  one  means  of  saving  him  ! 

LOUISA.     What  is  that  means  ? 

WORM.     And  your  father  approves  of  it 

LOUISA.     My  father  ?     Oh  !  name  that  means. 

WORM.     It  is  easy  for  you  to  execute. 

LOUISA.     I  know  of  nothing  harder  than  infamy! 

WORM.  Suppose  you  were  to  release  the  major  from 
his  engagement? 

LOUISA.  Release  him !  Do  you  mock  me?  Do  you 
call  that  a  choice  to  which  force  compelled  me  ? 

WORM.  You  mistake  me,  dear  girl !  The  major  must 
resign  you  willingly,  and  be  the  first  to  retract  his  engage- 
ment. 

LOUISA.     That  he  will  never  do. 

WORM.  So  it  appears.  Should  we,  do  you  think,  have 
had  recourse  to  you  were  it  not  that  you  alone  are  able 
to  help  us  ? 

LOUISA.     I  cannot  compel  him  to  hate  me. 

WORM.     We  will  try  !     Be  seated. 

LOUISA  (drawing  back).  Man  !  What  is  brooding  in 
thy  artful  brain  ? 

WORM.  Be  seated.  Here  are  paper,  pens,  and  ink. 
Write  what  I  dictate. 

LOUISA  (sitting  down  In  the  greatest  uneasiness).  What 
must  I  write  ?  To  whom  must  I  write  ? 

WORM.     To  your  father's  executioner. 

LOUISA.  Ah!  How  well  thou  knowest  to  torture 
souls  to  thy  purpose.  (Takes  a  pen.) 

WORM  (dictating  to  her).  "My  dear  Sir.  (LomsA 
writes  with  a  trembling  hand?)  three  days,  three  insup- 
portable days,  have  already  passed  —  already  passed  — 
since  last  we  met. " 

LOUISA  (starts,  and  lays  down  her  pen).  To  whom  is 
the  letter? 

WORM.    To  your  father's  executioner. 

LOUISA.    Oh !  my  God  ! 

WOBM.     "  But  for  this  you  must  blame  the  major  — 


l»6  LOVE    AND     INTRIGUE. 

the  major  —  who  watches  me  all  day  with  the  vigilance 
of  an  Argus." 

LOUISA  (starting  up}.  Villany !  Villany  beyond  all 
precedent!  To  whom  is  the  letter? 

WORM.     To  your  father's  executioner. 

LOUISA  (paces  to  and  fro,  wringing  her  hands).  No, 
no,  no  !  This  is  tyrannical !  Oh  Heaven  !  If  mortals  pro- 
voke thee,  punish  them  like  mortals;  but  wherefore  must 
I  be  placed  between  two  precipices '?  Wherefore  am  I 
hurled  by  turns  from  death  to  infamy,  from  infamy  to 
death?  Wherefore  is  my  neck  made  the  footstool  of 
this  blood-sucking  fiend  ?  No;  do  what  them  wilt,  I  will 
never  write  that ! 

WORM  (seizing  his  hat).  As  you  please,  miss !  It  rests 
entirely  on  your  own  pleasure! 

LOUISA.  Pleasure,  say'st  thou?  On  my  own  pleas- 
ure? Go,  barbarian!  Suspend  some  unfortunate  over 
the  pit  of  hell ;  then  make  your  demands,  and  ask  your 
victim  if  it  be  his  pleasure  to  grant  your  request !  Oh  ! 
Thou  knowest  but  too  well  that  the  bonds  of  nature  bind 
our  hearts  as  firmly  as  chains !  But  all  is  now  alike  in- 
different. Dictate  !  I  cease  to  think  !  Artifices  of  hell, 
I  yield  to  ye  !  (/She  resumes  her  seat  at  the  table.) 

WORM.  "With  the  vigilance  of  an  Argus."  Have 
you  written  it  ? 

LOUISA.     Proceed,  proceed ! 

WORM.  "  The  president  was  here  yesterday.  It  was 
amusing  to  see  how  warm  the  poor  major  was  in  defence 
of  my  honor." 

LOUISA.  Excellent!  Excellent!  Oh!  Admirable! 
Quick  !  quick,  go  on  ! 

WORM.  "  I  had  recourse  to  a  swoon  —  a  swoon  — 
that  I  might  not  laugh  aloud  " 

LOUISA.     Oh,  Heavens  ! 

WORM.  "  But  the  mask  which  I  have  worn  so  long  is 
becoming  insupportable  —  insupportable.  Oh  !  if  I  could 
but  rid  myself  of  him." 

LOUISA  (rises,  and  walks  a  few  turns  with  her  head  bent 
down,  as  if  she  sought  something  upon  the  floor :  then  re- 
turns to  /ier  place,  and  continues  to  write).  "  Rid  myself 
of  him."  J 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  67 

WORM.  "  He  will  be  on  duty  to-morrow  —  observe 
when  he  leaves  me,  and  hasten  to  the  usual  place." 
Have  you  written  "  the  usual  place  ?  " 

LOUISA.     Everything,  everything ! 

WORM.  "  To  the  usual  place,  to  meet  your  devotedly 
attached  Louisa." 

LOUISA.    Now  then,  the  address  ? 

WORM.     «  To  Marshal  Von  Kalb.  " 

LOUISA.  Eternal  Providence !  A  name  as  foreign  to 
my  ear  as  these  scandalous  lines  are  to  my  heart !  (£he 
rises,  and  for  some  moments  surveys  the  writing  with  a 
vacant  gaze.  At  length  she  hands  it  to  WORM,  speaking 
in  a  voice  trembling  and  exhausted.)  Take  it,  sir !  What 
I  now  put  into  your  hands  is  my  good  name.  It  is  Fer- 
di.iand  —  it  is  the  whole  joy  of  my  life !  You  have  it, 
and  now  I  am  a  beggar 

WORM.  Oh !  Not  so  !  Despair  not,  dear  girl  ! 
You  inspire  me  with  the  most  heartfelt  pity!  Perhaps 
—  who  knows  ?  I  might  even  now  overlook  certain  parts 
of  your  conduct — yes!  Heaven  is  my  witness,  how 
deeply  I  compassionate  your  sorrows! 

LOUISA  (giving  him  a  piercing  look).  Do  not  explain 
yourself!  You  are  on  the  point  of  asking  something 
more  terrible  than  all. 

WORM  (attempting  to  kiss  her  hand).  What  if  I  asked 
this  little  hand  ?  Would  that  be  terrible,  Louisa? 

LOUISA  (with  great  indignation).  Yes !  for  I  should 
strangle  you  on  the  bridal  night :  and  for  such  a  deed  I 
would  joyfully  yield  my  body  to  be  torn  on  the  rack!  (She 
is  going,  but  comes  hurriedly  back.)  Is  all  settled  be- 
tween us,  sir  ?  May  the  dove  be  released  ? 

WORM.  A  trifle  yet  remains,  maiden !  You  must 
swear,  by  the  holy  sacrament,  to  acknowledge  this  letter 
for  your  free  and  voluntary  act. 

LOUISA.  Oh  God!  Oh  God!  And  wilt  thou  grant 
thine  own  seal  to  confirm,  the  works  of  hell  ?  (WORM 
leads  her  away.) 


68  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

ACT    IV. 

SCENE  T.     Saloon  in  the  PRESIDENT'S  Souse. 

FERDINAND  VON  WALTER  enters  in  great  excitement  with 
an  open  letter  in  his  hand,,  and  is  met  by  a  SERVANT. 

FEUD.     Is  the  marshal  here  ? 

SKRV.  My  lord,  his  highness  the  president  is  inquir- 
ing for  you. 

FERD.     Fire  and  fury !      I  ask  is  the  marshal  here  ? 

SERV.  His  honor  is  engaged  at  the  faro-table,  above 
stairs. 

FERD.  Tell  his  honor,  in  the  name  of  all  the  devils  in 
hell,  to  make  his  appearance  this  instant ! 

{Exit  SERVANT. 

SCENE  II. 

FERD.  (hastily  reading  the  letter,  at  one  moment  seem- 
ing petrified  with  astonishment,  at  the  next  pacing  the 
room  with  fury).  Impossible  !  quite  impossible !  A  form 
so  heavenly  cannot  hide  so  devilish  a  heart.  And  yet!  — 
and  yet !  Though  all  the  angels  of  heaven  should  descend 
on  earth  and  proclaim  her  innocence  —  though  heaven 
and  earth,  the  Creator  and  the  created,  should,  with  one 
accord,  vouch  for  her  innocence  —  it  is  her  hand,  her  own 
hand  !  Treachery,  monstrous,  infernal  treachery,  such  as 
humanity  never  before  witnessed !  This,  then,  was  the 
reason  she  so  resolutely  opposed  our  flight !  This  it  was 
—  Oh,  God  !  Now  I  awake  from  my  dream !  Now  the 
veil  is  lifted  !  This,  then,  is  why  she  surrendered  with  so 
much  seeming  heroism  her  claims  on  my  affection,  and 
all  but  cheated  me  with  her  saint-like  demeanor !  (lie 
traverses  the  chamber  rapidly,  and  then  remains  for  some 
moments  in  deep  thought.} '  To  fathom  my  heart  to  its 
very  core !  To  reciprocate  every  lofty  sentiment,  every 
gentle  emotion,  every  fiery  ebullition!  To  sympathize 
with  every  secret  breathing  of  my  soul !  To  study  me 
even  in  her  tears !  To  mount  with  me  to  the  sublimest 
heights  of  passion  —  to  brave  with  me,  undaunted,  each 
fearful  precipice!  God  of  heaven!  And  was  all  this 
deceit  ?  mere  grimace  ?  Oh,  if  falsehood  can  assume  so 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  69 

lovely  an  appearance  of  truth  why  has  no  devil  yet  lied 
himself  back  into  heaven  ? 

When  I  unfolded  to  her  the  dangers  which  threatened 
our  affection,  with  what  convincing  artifice  did  the  false 
one  turn  pale  !  With  what  overpowering  dignity  did  she 
repulse  my  father's  licentious  scoffs !  yet  at  that  very 
moment  the  deceiver  was  conscious  of  her  guilt!  Nay, 
did  she  not  even  undergo  the  fiery  ordeal  of  truth  ?  For- 
sooth, the  hypocrite  fainted  !  What  must  now  be  thy 
language,  sensibility,  since  coquettes  faint  ?  How  wilt 
thou  vindicate  thyself,  innocence? — for  even  strumpets 
faint  ? 

She  knows  her  power  over  me  —  she  has  seen  through 
jny  very  heart !  My  soul  shone  conspicuous  in  my  eyes 
at  the  blush  of  her  first  kiss.  And  that  she  should  have 
felt  nothing  !  or  perhaps  felt  only  the  triumph  of  her  art; 
whilst  my  happy  delirium  fancied  that  in  her  I  embraced 
a  whole  heaven,  my  wildest  wishes  were  hushed !  No 
thought  but  of  her  and  eternity  was  present  to  my  mind. 
Oh,  God  !  and  yet  she  felt  nothing?  Nothing?  but  that 
her  artifice  had  triumphed !  That  her  charms  were 
flattered  !  Death  and  vengeance  !  Nothing,  but  that  I 
was  betrayed ! 

SCENE  III. 
FERDINAND,  the  MARSHAL. 

MARSHAL  (tripping  into  the  room).  I  am  told,  my 
dear  baron,  that  you  have  expi-essed  a  wish 

FEED,  (muttering  to  himself).  To  break  your  rascally 
neck.  (Aloud.)  Marshal,  this  letter  must  have  dropped 
out  of  your  pocket  on  parade.  (  With  a  malicious  smile.) 
And  I  have  been  the  fortunate  finder. 

MARSHAL.     You  ? 

FERD.  By  a  singular  coincidence  !  Now,  balance  thy 
account  with  heaven  ! 

MARSHAL.     You  quite  alarm  me,  baron ! 

FERD.  Read  it,  sir,  read  it !  (  Turning  from  him.) 
Tf  I  am  not  good  enough  for  a  lover  perhaps  I  may  do 
for  a  pimp.  (  While  the  MARSHAL  reads,  FEBDINAND 
goes  to  the  watt  and  takes  down  the  pistols.) 


70  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

KALB  (throws  the  letter  upon  the  table,  and  rushes  off) 
Confusion ! 

FEKD.  (leads  him  back  by  the  arm).  Wait  a  little,  my 
dear  marshal !  The  intelligence  contained  in  that  letter 
appears  to  be  agreeable  !  The  finder  must  have  his  re- 
ward. (Shmcing  him  the  pistols.) 

MARSHAL  (starts  back  in  alarm').  Have  you  lost  your 
senses,  baron  ? 

FKHD.  (in  a  terrible  voice).  I  have  more  than  enough 
left  to  rid  the  world  of  such  a  scoundrel  as  you !  Choose 
one  of  these  instantly  !  (He  forces  a  pistol  into  the  MAR- 
SHAL'S hand,  and  then  draws  out  his  handkerchief.')  And 
now  take  the  other  end  of  this  handkerchief !  It  was 
given  me  by  the  strumpet  herself  ! 

MARSHAL.  What,  shoot  over  the  handkerchief  ?  Baron, 
are  you  mad?  What  can  you  be  thinking  of? 

FERD.  Lay  hold  of  it,  I  say !  or  you  will  be  sure  to 
miss  your  aim,  coward !  How  the  coward  trembles ! 
You  should  thank  God,  you  pitiful  coward,  that  you  have 
a  chance  for  once  of  getting  something  in  your  empty 
brain-box.  (The  MARSHAL  takes  to  his  heels.}  Gently, 
gently  !  I'll  take  care  of  that.  (Overtakes  him  and  bolts 
the  door. 

MARSHAL.     Surely  you  will  not  fight  in  the  chamber? 

FERD.  As  if  you  were  worth  the  trouble  of  a  walk  be- 
yond the  boundaries  !  The  report,  my  dear  fellow,  will 
be  louder,  and,  for  the  first  time,  you  will  make  some  noise 
in  the  world.  Xow,  then,  take  hold  ! 

MARSHAL  (wiping  his  forehead).  Yet  consider,  I 
entreat.  Would  you  risk  your  precious  life,  young  and 
promising  as  you  are,  in  this  desperate  manner? 

FERD.  Take  hold,  I  say  !  I  have  nothing  more  to  do 
in  this  world ! 

MARSHAL.  But  I  have  much,  my  dearest,  most  excellent 
friend ! 

FERD.  Thou,  wretch  —  thou  ?  What  hast  thou  to  do, 
but  to  play  the  stop-gap,  where  honest  men  keep  aloof !  To 
stretch  or  shrink  seven  times  in  an  instant,  like  the  butter- 
fly on  a  pin  ?  To  be  privy  registrar  in  chief  and  clerk  of 
the  Jordan?  To  be  the  cap-and-bell  buffoon  on  which 
your  master  sharpens  his  wit?  Well,  well,  let  it  be  so. 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  71 

I  will  carry  you  about  with  me,  as  I  would  a  marmot  of 
rare  training.  You  shall  skip  and  dance,  like  a  tamed 
monkey,  to  the  howling  of  the  damned ;  fetch,  carry,  and 
serve ;  and  with  your  courtly  arts  enliven  the  wailings  of 
everlasting  despair ! 

MARSHAL.  Anything  you  please,  dear  major!  What- 
ever you  please  !  Only  take  away  the  pistols  ! 

FERD.  How  he  stands  there,  poor  trembling  wretch  ! 
There  he  stands,  a  blot  on  the  sixth  day  of  creation.  He 
looks  as  if  he  were  a  piratical  counterfeit  of  the  Almighty 
original.  Pity,  eternal  pity !  that  an  atom  of  brains 
should  lie  wasting  in  so  barren  a  skull !  That  single  atom 
bestowed  upon  a  baboon  might  have  made  him  a  perfect 
man,  whereas  it  is  now  a  mere  useless  fragment.  And 
that  she  should  share  her  heai't  with  a  thing  like  this ! 
Monstrous  !  Incredible  !  A  wretch  more  formed  to  wean 
from  sin  than  to  excite  it ! 

MARSHAL.     Praised  be  Heaven !  he  is  getting  witty. 

FERD.  I  will  let  him  live!  That  toleration  which 
spares  the  caterpillar  shall  be  extended  to  him  !  Men 
t;h;ill  look  on  him  in  wonder,  and,  shrugging  their 
shoulders,  admire  the  wise  dispensation  of  Providence, 
which  can  feed  its  creatures  with  husks  and  scourings  ; 
which  spreads  the  table  for  the  raven  on  the  gallows,  and 
for  the  courtier  in  the  slime  of  majesty.  We  wonder  at 
the  wisdom  of  Providence,  which  even  in  the  world  of 
spirits  maintains  its  staff  of  venomous  reptiles  for  the  dis- 
semination of  poison.  (Relapsing  into  rage.}  But  such 
vermin  shall  not  pollute  my  rose  ;  sooner  will  I  crush  it  to 
atoms  (seizing  the  MARSHAL  and  shaking  him  roughly}, 
thus and  thus and  thus 

MARSHAL.  Oh!  God,  that  I  were  away  from  here! 
hundreds  of  miles  away  in  the  asylum  for  maniacs  at 
Paris  !  Anywhere  but  near  this  man ! 

FERD.  Villain !  If  she  be  no  longer  pure  !  Villain  ! 
If  thou  hast  profaned  where  I  worshipped  !  (with  increased 
fury).  If  thou  hast  polluted,  where  I  believed  myself  the 
god  !  (Pausing  suddenly;  then  in  a  solemn  terrible  voice.) 
It  were  better  for  thee,  villain,  to  flee  to  hell,  than  to 
encounter  my  wrath  in  heaven  !  Confess!  To  what 
extent  has  your  unhallowed  love  proceeded  ? 


72  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

MARSHAL.     Let  me  go  !     I  will  confess  everything. 

FEED.  Oh  !  it  must  be  more  rapturous  even  to  be  her 
licentious  paramour  than  to  burn  with  the  purest  flame 
for  any  other  !  Would  she  surrender  her  charms  to  un- 
licensed pleasure  she  might  dissolve  the  soul  itself  to  sin, 
and  make  voluptuousness  pass  for  virtue  (pressing  his  pis- 
tol against  the  MARSHAL'S  breast).  To  what  extremities 
have  you  proceeded  ?  Confess  this  instant  or  I  fire  ! 

MARSHAL.  There  is  nothing  at  all  in  it,  I  assure  you  ! 
There  is  not  a  syllable  of  truth  in  the  whole  business  ! 
Have  but  a  moment's  patience  !  You  are  deceived,  in- 
deed you  are  ! 

FERD.  (furiously).  And  dare  you  remind  me  of  that, 
villain?  To  what  extremities  have  you  proceeded? 
Confess,  or  you  are  a  dead  man  ! 

MARSHAL.  Mon  Uieu!  My  God  !  You  mistake  my 
words!  Only  listen  for  a  moment.  When  a  father  - 

FERD.  (still  more  enraged).  No  doubt  !  He  threw  his 
daughter  into  your  arms?  And  how  far  have  you  pro- 
ceeded ?  Confess,  or  I  will  murder  you  ! 

MARSHAL.  You  rave  !  You  will  not  listen  !  I  never 
saw  her  !  1  don't  know  her  !  I  know  nothing  at  all 
about  her  1 

FERD.  (drawing  back).  You  never  saw  her?  You 
don't  know  her  ?  Know  nothing  at  all  about  her?  Louisa 
is  lost  to  roe  forever  on  thy  account,  and  yet  in  one  breath 
hast  thou  denied  her  thrice.  Go,  wretch,  go  (he  gives 
him  a  blow  with  th-e  pistol,  and  thrusts  him  out  of  the 
chamber)  ;  powder  were  thrown  away  on  such  a  mis- 
creant. [Exit  MARSHAL. 

IV. 


FERD.  (after  a  lor>g  silence,  during  which  his  counte- 
nance declares  him  to  be  agitated  by  some  dreadful  idea). 
Forever  lost?  Yes,  false  unfortunate,  both  are  lost! 
Ay,  by  the  Almighty  God  !  if  I  am  lost,  thou  art  so  too. 
Judge  of  the  world,  ask  her  not  from  me  !  She  is  mine. 
For  her  sake  I  renounced  the  whole  world  —  abandoned 
all  thy  glorious  creation.  Leave  me  the  maid,  great  Judge 
of  the  world  !  Millions  of  souls  pour  out  their  plaints 
to  thee  —  turn  on  them  thine  eye  o*  oow.pafr^cr,  Vrt 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  73 

leave  me,  Almighty  Judge  —  leave  me  to  myself.  (Clasp, 
ing  his  hands  in  agony.)  Can  the  bountiful,  the  munifi- 
cent Creator  be  covetous  of  one  miserable  soul,  and  that 
soul  the  worst  of  his  creation  ?  The  maiden  is  mine ! 
Once  I  was  her  god,  but  now  I  am  her  devil ! 

(Fixes  his  eyes  with  terrible  expression.) 

An  eternity  passed  with  her  upon  the  rack  of  everlast- 
ing perdition !  Her  melting  eye-balls  riveted  on  mine  ! 
Our  blazing  locks  entwined  together !  Our  shrieks  of 
agony  dissolving  into  one !  And  then  to  renew  to  her 
my  vows  of  love,  and  chant  unceasingly  her  broken 
oaths !  God  !  God  !  The  union  is  dreadful  —  and  eter- 
nal !  (As  he  is  about  to  rush  off,  the  PRESIDENT  meets 
him.) 

SCENE  V. 
FERDINAND,  the  PRESIDENT. 

FERD.  (starting  back).     Ha!  my  father. 

PEES.  I  am  glad  to  meet  with  you,  Ferdinand !  I 
come  to  bring  you  some  pleasant  news —  something  that 
will  certainly  surprise  you,  my  dear  son.  Shall  we  be 
seated  ? 

FERD.  (after  gazing  upon  him  for  some  time  with  a 
vacant  stare).  My  father!  (Going  to  him  with  emotion, 
and  grasping  his  hand.)  My  father  !  (Kissing  it,  and 
falling  at  his  feet.)  Oh,  father  ! 

PEES.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Rise,  my  son.  Your  hand 
burns  and  trembles ! 

FEED,  (wildly).  Forgive  my  ingratitude,  father!  I 
am  a  lost  man!  I  have  misinterpreted  your  kindness! 
Your  meaning  was  so  truly  — truly  paternal  !  Oh  !  you 
had  a  prophetic  soul !  Now  it  is  too  late !  Pardon !  par- 
don !  Your  blessing,  my  dear  father! 

PEES,  (feigning  'astonishment).  Arise,  my  son  !  Re- 
collect that  your  words  to  me  are  riddles ! 

FEED.  This  Louisa,  dear  father !  Oh!  You  under- 
derstand  mankind !  Your  anger  was  so  just,  so  noble, 
so  truly  the  zeal  of  a  father !  had  not  its  _very  earnest- 
ness led  you  to  mistake  the  way.  This  Louisa! 


74  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

PBES.  Spare  me,  dear  boy  !  Curses  on  my  severity ! 
I  come  to  entreat  your  forgiveness 

FEED.  Forgiveness  from  me !  Curse  me  rather. 
Your  disapproval  was  wisdom !  Your  severity  was 
heavenly  mercy !  This  Louisa,  father 

PRES.  Is  a  noble,  a  lovely  girl !  I  recall  my  too  rash 
suspicions !  She  has  won  my  entire  esteem  ! 

FEUD,  (starting  up).  What?  You,  too?  Father, 
even  you?  And  is  she  not,  father,  the  very  personifica- 
tion of  innocence  ?  And  is  it  not  so  natural  to  love  this 
maiden? 

PRES.     Say,  rather,  'twere  a  crime  not  to  love  her. 

FERD.  Incredible !  wonderful !  And  you,  too,  who 
can  so  thoroughly  see  through  the  heart !  And  you,  who 
saw  her  faults  with  the  eyes  of  hatred !  Oh,  unexampled 
hypocrisy  !  This  Louisa,  father  ! 

PRES.  Is  worthy  to  be  my  daughter!  Her  virtues 
supply  the  want  of  ancestry,  her  beauty  the  want  of  for- 
tune. My  prudential  maxims  yield  to  the  force  of  your 
attachment.  Louisa  shall  be  yours  ! 

FERD.  Naught  but  this  wanting !  Father,  farewell ! 
(Rushes  out  of  the  apartment.) 

PRES.  (following  him).  Stay,  my  son,  stay  !  Whither 
do  you  fly  ? 

SCENE  VI.  —  A  magnificent  Saloon  in  LADY  MILFORD'S 
House. 

Enter  LADY  MILFORD  and  SOPHIA. 

LADY  M.     You  have  seen  her  then  ?     Will  she  come  ? 

SOPHIA.  Yes,  in  a  moment!  She  was  in  dishabille, 
and  only  requested  time  to  change  her  dress. 

LADY  M.  Speak  not  of  her.  Silence  !  I  tremble  like 
a  criminal  at  the  prospect  of  beholding  that  fortunate 
woman  whose  heart  sympathizes  thus  cruelly  with  my 
own.  And  how  did  she  receive  my  invitation? 

SOPHIA.  She  seemed  surprised,  became  thoughful, 
fixed  her^  eyes  on  me  steadfastly,  and  for  a  while  re- 
mained silent.  I  was  already  prepared  for  her  excuses, 
when  she  returned  me  this  answer  with  a  look  that  quite 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  75 

astonished  me ;  "  Tell  your  mistress  that  she  commands 
what  I  myself  intended  to  request  to-morrow." 

LADY  M.  Leave  me,  Sophia !  Pity  me !  I  must 
blush  if  she  is  but  an  ordinary  woman  —  despair  if  she  is 
more ! 

SOPHIA.  But,  my  lady !  it  is  not  in  this  spirit  that  a 
rival  should  be  received !  Remember  who  you  are ! 
Summon  to  your  aid  your  birth,  your  rank,  your  power  ! 
A  prouder  soul  should  heighten  the  gorgeous  splendor  of 
your  appearance. 

LADY  M.  (in  a  Jit  of  absence).  What  is  the  simpleton 
babbling  about  ? 

SOPHIA  (maliciously}.  Or,  is  it,  perhaps,  by  chance 
that  to-day,  in  particular,  you  are  adorned  with  your 
most  costly  brilliants  ?  by  chance  that  you  are  to-day 
arrayed  in  your  most  sumptuous  robes  ?  that  your  ante- 
chamber is  crowded  with  guards  and  pages;  and  that 
the  tradesman's  daughter  is  to  be  received  in  the  most 
stately  apartment  of  the  palace  ? 

LADY  M.  (angry  and  nettled} .  This  is  outrageous !  In- 
supportable !  Oh  that  woman  should  have  such  argus- 
eyes  for  woman's  weakness  !  How  low,  how  irretrievably 
low  must  I  have  fallen  when  such  a  creature  has  power 
to  fathom  me ! 

LADY  MILFORD,  SOPHIA,  a  SERVANT. 

SERVANT  (entering).  Ma'mselle  Miller  waits. 
LADY  M.  (to  SOPHIA).  Hence -with  you!  Leave  the 
room  instantly !  (Imperiously,  as  the  latter  hesitates.) 
Must  I  repeat  my  orders  ?  (SOPHIA  retires  —  LADY 
MILFORD  takes  a  few  turns  hastily.}  So;  'tis  well  that  I 
have  been  excited !  I  am  in  the  fitter  mood  for  this 
meeting.  (  To  the  SERVANT.)  Let  her  approach. 

\_Exlt  SERVANT,  LADY  MILFORD  throws  herself 
upon  the  sofa,  and  assumes  a  negligent  but 
studied  attitude. 


76  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

SCENE  VII. 
LADY  MILFORD,  LOUISA. 

LOUISA  enters  timidly,  and  remains  standing  at  a  great 
distance  from  LADY  MILFORD,  who  has  turned  her  back 
towards  her,  and  for  some  time  watches  her  attentively 
in  the  opposite  looking-glass.  After  a  pause 

LOUISA.     Noble  lady,  I  await  your  commands. 

LADY  M.  (turning  towards  LOUISA,  and  making  a  slight 
and  distant  motion  with  her  head.)  Oh  !  Are  you  there  ? 

I  presume  the  young  lady  —  a  certain .  Pray  what 

is  your  name? 

LOUISA  (somewhat  sensitively).  My  father's  name  is 
Miller.  Your  ladyship  expressed  a  wish  to  see  his 
daughter. 

LADY  M.  True,  true  !  I  remember.  The  poor  musi- 
cian's daughter,  of  whom  we  were  speaking  the  other 
day.  (Aside,  after  a  pause.)  Very  interesting,  but  no 
beauty!  (To  LOUISA.)  Come  nearer,  my  child.  (Again 
aside)  Eyes  well  practised  in  weeping.  Oh !  How 
I  love  those  eyes  !  (Aloud.)  Nearer  —  come  nearer ! 
Quite  close  !  I  really  think,  my  good  child,  that  you  are 
afraid  of  me ! 

LOUISA  (with  firmness  and  dignity).  No,  my  lady  —  I 
despise  the  opinion  of  the  multitude  ! 

LADY  M.  (aside).  Well,  to  be  sure!  She  has  learnt 
this  boldness  from  him.  (To  LOUISA.)  You  have  been 
recommended  to  me,  miss!  I  am  told  that  you  have 
been  decently  educated,  and  are  well  disposed.  I  can 
readily  believe  it;  besides,  I  would  not,  for  the  world, 
doubt  the  word  of  so  warm  an  advocate. 

LOUISA.  And  yet  I  remember  no  one,  my  lady,  who 
would  be  at  the  trouble  to  seek  your  ladyship's  patronage 
for  me ! 

LADY  M.  (significantly).  Does  that  imply  my  unwor- 
thiness,  or  your  humility? 

LOUISA.  Your  words  are  beyond  my  comprehension, 
lady. 

LADY  M.     More  cunning  than  I  should  have  expected 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  77 

from  that  open  countenance.  (  To  LOUISA.)  Your  name 
is  Louisa,  I  believe?  May  I  inquire  your  age? 

LOUISA.     Sixteen,  just  turned. 

LADY  M.  (starting  up).  Ha!  There  it  is!  Sixteen! 
The  first  pulsation  of  love !  The  first  sweet  vibration 
upon  the  yet  unsounded  harp  !  Nothing  is  more  fascinat- 
ing. ( To  LOUISA.)  Be  seated,  lovely  girl  —  I  am  anxious 
about  you.  (To  herself.)  And  he,  too,  loves  for  the 
first  time  !  What  wonder,  if  the  ruddy  morning  beams 
should  meet  and  blend  ?  ( To  LOUISA,  taking  her  hand 
affectionately.)  'Tis  settled  :  I  will  make  your  fortune. 
( To  herself.)  Oh !  there  is  nothing  in  it:  nothing,  but 
the  sweet  transient  vision  of  youth  !  (To  LOUISA,  patting 
her  on  the  cheek.)  My  Sophy  is  on  the  point  of  leaving 
me  to  be  married  :  you  shall  have  her  place.  But  just 
sixteen  ?  Oh  !  it  can  never  last. 

LOUISA  (kissing  her  hand  respectfully).  Receive  my 
thanks,  lady,  for  your  intended  favors,  and  believe  me 
not  the  less  grateful  though  I  may  decline  to  accept 
them. 

LADY  M.  (relapsing  into  disdain  and  anger).  Only 
hear  the  great  lady  !  Girls  of  your  station  generally  think 
themselves  fortunate  to  obtain  such  promotion.  What  is 
your  dependence,  my  dainty  one  ?  Are  these  fingers  too 
uelicate  for  work?  —  or  is  it  your  pretty  baby-face  that 
makes  you  give  yourself  these  airs  ? 

LOUISA.  My  face,  lady,  is  as  little  of  my  own  choice  as 
my  station  ! 

LADY  M.  Perhaps  you  believe  that  your  beauty  will 
last  forever?  Poor  creature!  Whoever  put  that  into 
your  head  —  be  he  who  he  may  —  has  deceived  both  you 
and  himself!  The  colors  of  those  cheeks  are  not  burnt  in 
with  fire:  what  your  mirror  passes  off  upon  you  as  solid 
and  enduring  is  but  a  slight  tinselling,  which,  sooner  or 
later,  will  rub  off  in  the  hands  of  the  purchaser.  What 
then  will  you  do  ? 

LOUISA.  Pity  the  purchaser,  lady,  who  bought  a 
diamond  because  it  appeared  to  be  set  in  gold. 

LADY  M.  (affecting  not  to  hear  her).  A  damsel  of  your 
age  has  ever  two  mirrors,  the  real  one,  and  her  admirer. 
The  flattering  complaisance  of  the  latter  counterbalances 


78  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

the  rough  honesty  of  the  former.  What  the  one  pro- 
claims frightful  pock-marks,  the  other  declares  to  be 
dimples  that  would  adorn  the  Graces.  The  credulous 
maid  believes  only  so  much  of  the  former  as  is  confirmed 
by  the  latter,  and  hies  from  one  to  the  other  till  she  con- 
founds their  testimonies,  and  concludes  by  fancying  them 
to  be  both  of  one  opinion.  Why  do  you  stare  at  me 
so? 

LOUISA.  Pardon  me,  lady !  I  was  just  then  pitying 
those  gorgeous  sparkling  brilliants,  which  are  unconscious 
that  their  possessor  is  so  strenuous  a  foe  to  vanity. 

LADY  M.  (reddening].  No  evasion,  miss.  Were  it  not 
that  you  depend  upon  personal  attractions,  what  in  the 
world  could  induce  you  to  reject  a  situation,  the  only  one 
where  you  can  acquire  polish  of  manners  and  divest 
yourself  of  your  plebeian  prejudices  ? 

LOUISA.  And  with  them,  I  presume,  my  plebeian  inno- 
cence ! 

LADY  M.  Preposterous  objection !  The  most  dissolute 
libertine  dares  not  to  disrespect  our  sex,  unless  we  our- 
selves encourage  him  by  advances.  Prove  what  you  are ; 
make  manifest  your  virtue  and  honor,  and  I  will  guaran- 
tee your  innocence  from  danger. 

LOUISA.  Of  that,  lady,  permit  me  to  entertain  a  doubt! 
The  palaces  of  certain  ladies  are  but  too  often  made  a 
theatre  for  the  most  unbridled  licentiousness.  Who  will 
believe  that  a  poor  musician's  daughter  could  have  the 
heroism  to  plunge  into  the  midst  of  contagion  and  yet 
preserve  herself  untainted?  Who  will  believe  that 
Lady  Milford  would  perpetually  hold  a  scorpion  to  her 
breast,  and  lavish  her  wealth  to  purchase  the  advantage 
of  every  moment  feeling  her  cheeks  dyed  with  the  crimson 
blush  of  shame  ?  I  will  be  frank,  lady !  —  while  I  adorned 
you  for  some  assignation,  could  you  meet  my  eye  un- 
abashed ?  Could  you  endure  my  glance  when  you  re- 
turned ?  Oh !  better,  far  better,  would  it  be  that  oceans 
should  roll  between  us  —  that  we  should  inhabit  different 
climes  !  Beware,  my  lady !  —  hours  of  temperance,  mo- 
ments of  satiety  might  intrude ;  the  gnawing  worm  of  re- 
morse might  plant  its  sting  in  your  bosom,  and  then  — 
what  a  torment  would  it  be  for  you  to  read  in  the  counte- 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  79 

nance  of  your  handmaid  that  calm  serenity  with  which 
virtue  ever  rewards  an  uncorrupted  heart !  (Retiring  a 
few  steps.)  Once  more,  gracious  lady,  I  entreat  your 
pardon  ! 

LADY  M.  (extremely  agitated).  Insupportable,  that  she 
should  tell  me  this  !  Still  more  insupportable,  that  what 
she  tells  is  true  !  ( Turning  to  LOUISA,  and  looking  at 
her  steadfastly.)  Girl !  girl !  this  artifice  does  not  blind 
me.  Mere  opinions  do  not  speak  out  so  warmly.  Beneath 
the  cloak  of  these  sentiments  lurks  some  far  dearer 
interest.  'Tis  that  which  makes  my  service  particularly 
distasteful — which  gives  such  energy  to  your  language. 
(In  a  threatening  voice.)  What  it  is  I  am  determined  to 
discover. 

LOUISA  (with  calm  dignity).  And  what  if  you  do  dis- 
cover it  ?  Suppose  the  contemptuous  trampling  of  your 
foot  should  rouse  the  injured  worm,  which  its  Creator 
has  furnished  with  a  sting  to  protect  it  against  misusage. 
I  fear  not  your  vengeance,  lady !  The  poor  criminal  ex- 
tended on  the  rack  can  look  unappalled  even  on  the  disso- 
lution of  the  world.  My  misery  is  so  exquisite  that  even 
sincerity  cannot  draw  down  upon  me  any  further  infliction ! 
(After  a  pause.)  You  say  that  you  would  raise  me  from 
the  obscurity  of  my  station.  I  will  not  examine  the 
motives  of  this  suspicious  favor.  I  will  only  ask,  what 
could  induce  you  to  think  me  so  foolish  as  to  blush  at  my 
station?  What  could  induce  you  to  become  the  architect 
.•)f  my  happiness,  before  you  knew  whether  I  was  willing 
to  receive  that  happiness  at  your  hands?  I  had  forever 
renounced  all  claims  upon  the  pleasures  of  the  world.  I 
had  forgiven  fortune  that  she  had  dealt  with  me  so  nig- 
gardly. Ah !  why  do  you  remind  me  of  all  this.  If  the 
Almighty  himself  hides  his  glory  from  the  eyes  of  his 
creatures,  lest  the  highest  seraph  should  be  overwhelmed  by 
a  sense  of  his  own  insignificance,  why  should  mortals  be  so 
cruelly  compassionate?  Lady,  lady!  why  is  your  vaunted 
happiness  so  anxious  to  excite  the  envy  and  wonder  of 
the  wretched?  Does  your  bliss  stand  in  need  of  the  ex- 
hibition of  despair  for  entertainment?  Oh!  rather  grant 
me  that  blindness  which  alone  can  reconcile  me  to  my 
barbarous  lot !  The  insect  feels  itself  as  happy  in  a  drop 


80  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

of  water  as  though  that  drop  was  a  paradise :  so  happy, 
and  so  contented  !  till  some  one  tells  it  of  a  world  of 
water,  where  navies  ride  and  whales  disport  themselves! 
But  you  wish  to  make  me  happy,  say  you  ?  (After  a 
pause,  she  advances  towards  LADY  MILFORD,  and  asks  her 
suddenly.}  Are  you  happy,  lady?  (LADY  MILFORD 
turns  from  her  hastily ',  and  overpowered.  LOUISA  folloivs 
her,  and  lays  her  hand  upon  her  bosom.)  Does  this  heart 
wear  the  smile  of  its  station?  Could  we  now  exchange 
breast  for  breast,  and  fate  for  fate  —  were  I,  in  childlike 
innocence,  to  ask  you  on  your  conscience  —  were  I  to  ask 
you  as  a  mother  —  would  you  really  counsel  me  to  make 
the  exchange? 

LADY  M.  (greatly  excited,  throwing  herself  on  the  sofa). 
Intolerable!  Incomprehensible!  No,  Louisa,  no!  This 
greatness  of  thought  is  not  your  own,  and  your  concep- 
tions are  too  fiery,  too  full  of  youth,  to  be  inspired  by 
your  father.  Deceive  me  not  !  I  detect  another 
teacher 

LOUISA  (looking  piercingly  at  her).  I  cannot  but  won- 
der, my  lady,  that  you  should  have  only  just  discovered 
that  other  teacher,  and  yet  have  previously  shown  so 
much  anxiety  to  patronize  me  ! 

LADY  M.  (starting  up).  'Tis  not  to  be  borne !  Well, 
then,  since  I  cannot  escape  you,  I  know  him  —  know 
everything  —  know  more  than  I  wish  to  know!  (Sud- 
denly restraining  herself,  then  continuing  with  a  violence 
which  by  degrees  increases  to  frenzy.)  But  dare,  un- 
happy one ! —  dare  but  still  to  love,  or  be  beloved  by 
him  T  What  did  I  say  ?  Dare  but  to  think  of  him,  or 
to  be  one  of  his  thoughts !  I  am  powerful,  unhappy 
one!  —  dreadful  in  my  vengeance  !  Assure  as  there  is 
a  God  in  heaven  thou  art  lost  forever ! 

LOUISA  (undaunted).  Past  all  redemption,  my  lady, 
the  moment  you  succeed  in  compelling  him  to  love 
you ! 

LADY  M.  I  understand  you  —  but  I  care  not  for  his 
love !  I  will  conquer  this  disgraceful  passion.  I  will 
torture  my  own  heart ;  but  thine  will  I  crush  to  atoms ! 
Rocks  and  chasms  will  I  hurl  between  you.  I  will  rush, 
like  a  fury,  into  the  heaven  of  your  joys.  My  name  shall 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  81 

affright  your  loves  as  a  spectre  scares  an  assassin.  That 
young  and  blooming  form  in  his  embrace  shall  wither  to 
a  skeleton.  I  cannot  be  blest  with  him  —  neither  shalt 
thou.  Know,  wretched  girl,  that  to  blast  the  happiness 
of  others  is  in  itself  a  happiness  ! 

LOUISA.  A  happiness,  my  lady,  which  is  already  beyond 
your  reach  !  Seek  not  to  deceive  your  own  heart !  You 
are  incapable  of  executing  what  you  threaten  !  You  are 
incapable  of  torturing  a  "being  who  has  done  you  no 
wrong — but  whose  misfortune  it  is  that  her  feelings  have 
been  sensible  to  impressions  like  your  own.  But  I  love 
you  for  these  transports,  my  lady  ! 

LADY  M.  (recovering  herself}.  Where  am  I  ?  What 
have  I  done?  What  sentiments  have  I  betrayed?  To 
whom  have  I  betrayed  them  ?  Oh,  Louisa,  noble,  great, 
divine  soul,  forgive  the  ravings  of  a  maniac !  Fear  not, 
my  child!  I  will  not  injure  a  hair  of  thy  head  !  Name 
thy  wishes !  Ask  what  thou  wilt !  I  will  serve  thee 
with  all  my  power;  I  will  be  thy  friend — thy  sister! 
Thou  art  poor ;  look  (taking  off  her  brilliants],  I  will 
pell  these  jewels  —  sell  rny  wardrobe  —  my  carriages  and 
horses  —  all  shall  be  thine  —  grant  me  but  Ferdinand  ! 

LOUISA  (draws  back  indignantly).  Does  she  mock  my 
despair  ?  —  or  is  she  really  innocent  of  participation  in 
that  cruel  deed?  Ha!  then  I  may  yet  assume  the  hero- 
ine, and  make  my  surrender  of  him  pass  for  a  sacrifice ! 
(Remains  for  a  while  absorbed  in  thought,  then  approaches 
LADY  MILFORD,  seizes  her  hand,  and  gazes  on  her  with  a 
fixed  and  significant  look.)  Take  him,  lady  !  I  here 
voluntarily  resign  the  man  whom  hellish  arts  have  torn 
from  my  bleeding  bosom  !  Perchance  you  know  it  not, 
my  lady !  but  you  have  destroyed  the  paradise  of  two 
/overs  ;  you  have  torn  asunder  two  hearts  which  God  had 
Jinked  together ;  you  have  crushed  a  creature  not  less 
dear  to  him  than  yourself,  and  no  less  created  for  happi- 
ness ;  one  by  whom  he  was  worshipped  as  sincerely  as 
by  you  ;  but  who,  henceforth,  will  worship  him  no  more. 
But  the  Almighty  is  ever  open  to  receive  the  last  groan 
of  the  trampled  worm.  He  will  not  look  on  with  in- 
difference when  creatures  in  his  keeping  are  murdered. 
Now  Ferdinand  is  yours.  Take  him,  lady,  take  him! 


82  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

Rush  into  his  arms!  Drag  him  with  you  to  the  altar ! 
But  forget  not  that  the  spectre  of  a  suicide  will  rush 
between  you  and  the  bridal  kiss.  God  be  merciful !  No 
choice  is  left  me !  (Rushes  out  of  the  chamber.) 

SCENE  VIII. 

LADY  MILFORD  alone,  in  extreme  agitation,  gazing  on  the 
door  by  which  LOUISA  left.  At  length  she  recovers 
from  her  stupor. 

LADY  M.  What  was  that?  What  preys  so  on  my 
heart?  What  said  the  unhappy  one?  Still,  O  heaven, 
the  dreadful,  damning  words  ring  in  my  ears!  "Take 
him  !  Take  him !  "  What  should  I  take,  unfortunate  ? 
the  bequest  of  your  dying  groan  —  the  fearful  legacy  of 
your  despair?  Gracious  heaven!  am  I  then  fallen  so 
low  ?  Am  I  so  suddenly  hurled  from  the  towering  throne 
of  my  pride  that  I  greedily  await  what  a  beggar's 
generosity  may  throw  me  in  the  last  struggle  of  death  ? 
"  Take  him  !  Take  him  ! "  And  with  what  a  tone  was 
it  uttered!  —  with  what  a  look!  What!  Amelia!  is  it 
for  this  thou  hast  overleaped  the  bounds  of  thy  sex? 
For  this  didst  thou  vaunt  the  glorious  title  of  a  free-born 
Briton,  that  thy  boasted  edifice  of  honor  might  sink  before 
the  nobler  soul  of  a  despised  and  lowly  maiden?  No, 
proud  unfortunate!  No!  Amelia  Milford  may  blush 
for  shame,  —  but  shall  never  be  despised.  I,  too,  have 
courage  to  resign.  (She  walks  a  few  paces  with  a  majes- 
tic gait.)  Hide  thyself,  weak,  suffering  woman  !  Hence, 
ye  sweet  and  golden  dreams  of  love !  Magnanimity 
alone  be  now  my  guide.  These  lovers  are  lost,  or  Amelia 
must  withdraw  her  claim,  and  renounce  the  prince's 
heart.  (After  a  pause,  with  animation.)  It  is  deter- 
mined !  The  dreadful  obstactle  is  removed  — broken  are 
the  bonds  which  bound  me  to  the  duke  —  torn  from  my 
bosom  this  raging  passion.  Virtue,  into  thy  arms  I  throw 
myself.  Receive  thy  repentant  daughter.  Ha!  how 
happy  do  I  feel !  How  suddenly  relieved  my  heart,  and 
how  exalted  !  Glorious  as  the  setting  sun,  will  I  this  day 
descend  from  the  pinnacle  of  my  greatness ;  my  grandeur 
shall  expire  with  my  love,  and  my  own  heart  be  the  only 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  83 

sharer  of  my  proud  exile  !  (  Going  to  her  writing-table 
with  a  determined  air.)  It  must  be  done  at  once  —  now, 
on  the  spot  —  before  the  recollection  of  Ferdinand 
renews  the  cruel  conflict  in  my  bosom!  (/She  seats  her- 
self, and  begins  to  write). 

SCENE   IX. 

LADY  MILFORD,  an  ATTENDANT,  SOPHIA,  afterwards  the 
MARSHAL,  and  then  SERVANTS. 

SERVANT.  Marshal  Von  Kalb  is  in  the  ante-chamber, 
and  brings  a  message  from  his  highness. 

LADY  M.  (not  hearing  him  in  the  eagerness  of  writing). 
How  the  illustrious  puppet  will  stare !  The  idea  is 
singular  enough,  I  own,  the  presuming  to  astonish  his 
serene  numskull.  In  what  confusion  will  his  court  be 
thrown  !  The  whole  country  will  be  in  a  ferment. 

SERVANT  and  SOPHIA.     Marshal  Von  Kalb,  my  lady  ! 
LADY  M.  (turning  round).     Who?  the  marshal?     So 
much   the  better !      Such    creatures  were   designed    by 
nature  to  carry  the  ass'  panniers.  \_Exit  SERVANT. 

SOPHIA  (approaching  anxiously).    If  I  were  not  fearful, 
my  lady,  that  you  would  think  it  presumption.     (LADY 
MILFORD  continuing   to  write  eagerly.)     Louisa  Miller 
rushed  madly  to  the  hall  —  you  are  agitated  —  you  speak 
to  yourself.     (LADY  MILFORD  continues  writing.)     I  am 
quite  alarmed.     What  can  have  happened? 
(  The  MARSHAL  enters,  making  repeated  bows  at  LADY  MIL- 
FORD'S  back ;  as  she  takes  no  notice  of  him,  he  comes 
nearer,  stands  behind  her  chair,  touches  the  hem  of  her 
dress,  and  imprints  a  kiss  on  it,  saying  in  a  tremu- 
lous voice.) 

His  serene  highness 

LADY  M.  (while  she  per  uses  hastily  what  she  has  written). 
He  will  tax  me  with  black  ingratitude !  "  I  was  poor 
and  forsaken  !  He  raised  ine  from  misery  !  From  mis- 
ery." Detestable  exchange  !  Annul  my  bond,  seducer ! 
The  blush  of  my  eternal  shame  repays  my  debt  with 
interest. 

MARSHAL  (after  endeavoring  in  vain  to  catch  her  eye). 
Your  ladyship  seems  somewhat  absent.  I  take  the  liberty 


84  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

of  permitting  myself  the  boldness  (very  loud)  —  his 
serene  highness,  my  lady,  has  sent  me  to  inquire  whether 
you  mean  to  honor  this  evening's  gala  with  your  pres- 
ence, or  the  theatre? 

LADY  M.  (rising,  with  a  laugh).  One  or  the  other, 
sweet  sir.  In  the  meantime  take  this  paper  to  your  duke 
for  his  dessert.  (To  SOPHIA.)  Do  you,  Sophia,  give 
directions  to  have  my  carriage  brought  to  the  door  with- 
out delay,  and  call  my  whole  household  together  in  this 
saloon. 

SOPHIA  (goes  out  in  great  astonishment}.  Heavens! 
What  do  I  forebode  ?  What  will  this  end  in  ? 

MARSHAL.     You  seem  excited,  my  lady  ! 

LADY  M.  The  greater  the  chance  of  my  letting  you 
into  a  little  truth.  Rejoice,  my  Lord  Marshal!  There 
is  a  place  vacant  at  court.  A  fine  time  for  panders.  (As 
the  MARSHAL  throws  a  look  of  suspicion  upon  the  paper.) 
Read  it,  read  it!  'Tis  my  desire  that  the  contents  should 
be  made  public.  (  While  he  reads  it,  the  domestics  enter, 
and  range  themselves  in  the  background.) 

MARSHAL  (reading).  "Your  highness  —  an  engage- 
ment, broken  by  you  so  lightly,  can  no  longer  be  binding 
on  me.  The  happiness  of  your  subjects  was  the  condition 
of  my  love.  For  three  years  the  deception  has  lasted. 
The  veil  at  length  falls  from  my  eyes !  I  look  with  disgust 
on  favors  which  are  stained  with  the  tears  of  your  sub 
jects.  Bestow  the  love  which  I  can  no  longer  accept 
upon  your  weeping  country,  and  learn  from  a  British 
princess  compassion  to  your  German  people.  Within  an 
hour  I  shall  have  quitted  your  dominions. 

"  JOANNA  NORFOLK." 

SERVANTS  (exclaiming  to  each  other  in  astonishment). 
Quitted  the  dominions! 

MARSHAL  (replaces  the  letter  upon  the  table  in  terror). 
God  forbid,  my  dear  and  most  excellent  lady !  The 
bearer  of  such  a  letter  would  be  as  mad  as  the  writer ! 

LADY  M.  That  is  your  concern,  you  pink  of  a  cour- 
tier !  Alas !  I  am  sorry  to  know  that  you,  and  such  as 
you,  would  choke  even  in  the  utterance  of  what  others 
dare  to  do.  My  advice  is.  that  you  bake  the  letter  in  a 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  85 

venison  pasty,  so  that  his  most  serene  highness  may  find 
it  on  his  plate  ! 

MARSHAL.  God  preserve  me  !  What  presumption  ! 
Ponder  well,  I  entreat  you.  Reflect  on  the  disgrace 
which  you  will  bring  down  upon  yourself,  my  lady ! 

LADY  M.  (turning  to  the  assembled  domestics^  and  ad- 
dressing them  in  the  deepest  emotion).  You  seem  amazed, 
good  people  ;  and  anxiously  awaiting  the  solution  of  this 
riddle  ?  Draw  nearer,  my  friends  !  You  have  served 
me  truly  and  affectionately ;  have  looked  into  my  eyes 
rather  than  my  purse.  My  pleasure  was  your  study,  my 
approbation  your  pride !  Woe  is  me,  that  the  remem- 
brance of  your  fidelity  must  be  the  record  of  my  un- 
worthiness  !  Unhappy  fate,  that  the  darkest  season  of  my 
life  should  have  been  the  brightest  of  yours  !  (Her  eyes 
suffused  with  tears.*)  We  must  part,  my  children.  Lady 
Milford  has  ceased  to  exist,  and  Joanna  of  Norfolk  is  too 
poor  to  repay  your  love.  What  little  wealth  I  have  my 
treasurer  will  share  among  you.  This  palace  belongs  to 
the  duke.  The  poorest  of  you  will  quit  it  far  richer  than 
his  mistress!  Farewell,  my  children!  (She  extends  her 
hand,  which  they  all  in  turn  kiss^  with  marks  of  sorrow 
and  affection.)  I  understand  you,  my  good  people! 
Farewell !  forever  farewell !  (Struggling  with  her  feelings.*) 
I  hear  the  carriage  at  the  door.  (She  tears  herself  away, 
and  is  hurrying  out  when  the  MARSHAL  arrests  her  pro- 
gress.) How, now?  Pitiful  creature,  art  thou  still  there? 

MARSHAL  (who  all  this  while  has  been  gazing  in  vacant 
astonishment  at  the  letter).  And  must  /be  the  person  to 
put  this  letter  into  the  most  august  hands  of  his  most 
serene  highness? 

LADY  M.  Pitiful  creature,  even  thou  !  Thou  must 
deliver  into  his  most  august  hands,  and  convey  to  his 
most  august  ears,  that,  as  I  cannot  go  barefoot  toLoretto, 
I  will  support  myself  by  the  labor  of  my  hands,  that  I 
may  be  purified  from  the  disgrace  of  having  conde- 
scended to  rule  him.  (/She  hurries  off — the  rest  silently 
disperse.) 


86  LOVE   AND  INTRIGUE. 

ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.  —  Twilight ;  a  room  in  MILLER'S  house. 

LOUISA  sits  silent  and  motionless  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
room,  her  head  reclining  upon  her  hand.  After  a  long 
pause,  MILLER  enters  ivith  a  lantern,  the  light  of  which 
he  casts  anxiously  round  the  chamber,  without  observing 
LOUISA,  he  then  puts  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  sets  down 
the  lantern. 

LOUISA,  MILLER. 

MILL.  She  is  not  here  either.  No,  she  is  not  here !  I 
have  wandered  through  every  street ;  I  have  sought  her 
with  every  acquaintance  ;  I  have  inquired  at  every  door! 
No  one  has  seen  rny  child  !  (A  silence  of  some  moments.) 
Patience,  poor  unhappy  father!  Patience  till  morning; 
then  perhaps  the  corpse  of  your  only  one  may  come  float- 
ing to  shore.  Oh,  God  in  heaven !  What  though  my 
heart  has  hung  too  idolatrously  upon  this  daughter,  yet 
surely  the  punishment  is  severe!  Heavenly  Father! 
Surely  it  is  severe!  I  will  not  murmur,  Heavenly 
Father;  but  the  punishment  is  indeed  severe!  (Throws 
himself  sorrowfully  into  a  chair.} 

LOUISA  (without  moving  from  her  seat).  Thou  dost 
well,  wretched  old  man !  Learn  betimes  to  lose. 

MILL,  (starts  ap  eagerly}.  Ah!  art  thou  there,  my 
child  ?  Art  thou  there  ?  But  wherefore  thus  alone,  and 
without  a  light  ? 

LOUISA.  Yet  arn  I  not  alone.  When  all  things  around 
me  are  dark  and  gloomy  then  have  I  the  companionship 
which  most  I  love. 

MILL.  God  defend  thee,  my  child  !  The  worm  of  con- 
science alone  wakes  and  watches  with  the  owl ;  none  shun 
the  light  but  criminals  and  evil  spirits. 

LOUISA.  And  eternity,  father,  which  speaks  to  the  soul 
in  solitude ! 

MILL.     Louisa,  my  child  !     What  words  are  these  ? 

LOUISA  (rises,  and  comes  forward}.  I  have  fought  a 
hard  fight  —  you  know  it,  father  !  but  God  gave  me  the 
strength  !  The  fight  is  over !  Father,  our  sex  is  called 
timid  and  weak;  believe  it  ne  mar*'  '  We  tremble  at  a 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  87 

spider,  but  the  black  monster,  corruption,  we  hug  to  our 
arms  in  sport !  This  for  your  edification,  father.  Your 
Louisa  is  merry. 

MILL.  I  had  rather  you  wept.  It  would  please  me 
better. 

LOUISA.  How  I  will  outwit  him,  father !  How  I  shall 
cheat  the  tyrant !  Love  is  more  crafty  than  malice,  and 
bolder  —  he  knew  not  that,  the  man  of  the  unlucky  stai; ! 
Oh !  they  are  cunning  so  long  as  they  have  but  to  do  with 
the  head ;  but  when  they  have  to  grapple  with  the  heart 
the  villains  are  at  fault.  He  thought  to  seal  his  treachery 
with  an  oath !  Oaths,  father,  may  bind  the  living,  but 
death  dissolves  even  the  iron  bonds  of  the  sacrament ! 
Ferdinand  will  learn  to  know  his  Louisa.  Father,  will 
you  deliver  this  letter  for  me?  Will  you  do  me  the 
kindness? 

MILL.    To  whom,  my  child  ? 

LOUISA.  Strange  question !  Infinitude  and  my  heart 
together  had  not  space  enough  for  a  single  thought  but  of 
him.  To  whom  else  should  I  write  ? 

MILL,  (anxiously).  Hear  me,  Louisa !  I  must  read 
this  letter ! 

LOUISA.  As  you  please,  father !  but  you  will  not  under- 
stand it.  The  characters  lie  there  like  inanimate  corpses, 
and  live  but  for  the  eye  of  love. 

MILL  (reading).  "  You  are  betrayed,  Ferdinand  !  An 
unparalleled  piece  of  villany  has  dissolved  the  union  of 
our  hearts ;  but  a  dreadful  vow  binds  my  tongue,  and 
your  father  has  spies  stationed  upon  every  side.  But,  if 
thou  hast  courage,  my  beloved,  I  know  a  place  where 
oaths  no  longer  bind,  and  where  spies  cannot  enter." 
(MILLER  stops  short,  and  gazes  upon  her  steadfastly.') 

LOUISA.  Why  that  earnest  look,  father  ?  Read  what 
follows. 

MILL.  "But  thou  must  be  fearless  enough  to  wander 
through  a  gloomy  path  with  no  other  guides  than  God 
and  thy  Louisa.  Thou  must  have  no  companion  but 
love ;  leave  behind  all  thy  hopes,  all  thy  tumultuous 
wishes  —  thou  wilt  need  nothing  on  this  journey  but  thy 
heart.  Barest  thou  come ;  then  set  out  as  the  bell  tolls 
twelve  from  the  Carmelite  Tower.  Dost  thou  fear; 


88  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

then  erase  from  the  vocabulary  of  thy  sex's  virtues  the 
word  courage,  for  a  maiden  will  have  put  thee  to  shame." 
(MILLER  lays  down  the  letter  and  fixes  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground  in  deep  sorrow.  At  length  he  turns  to  LOUISA, 
and  says,  in  a  low,  broken  voice)  Daughter,  where  is  that 
place  ? 

LOUISA.  Don't  you  know  it,  father?  Do  you  really 
not  know  it  ?  'Tis  strange !  I  have  described  it  unmis- 
takably !  Ferdinand  will  not  fail  to  find  it. 

MILL.     Pray  speak  plainer! 

LOUISA.  I  can  think  of  no  pleasing  name  for  it  just 
now!  You  must  not  be  alarmed,  father,  if  the  name 

I  give  it  has  a  terrible  sound.  That  place, Oh  !  why 

has  no  lover  invented  a  name  for  it !  He  would  have 
chosen  the  softest,  the  sweetest  —  that  place,  my  dear 
father  —  but  you  must  not  interrupt  me  —  that  place  is — 
the  grave ! 

MILL,  (staggering  to  a  seat).     Oh,  God! 

LOUISA  (hastens  to  him,  and  supports  him).  Nay, 
father,  be  not  alarmed !  These  are  but  terrors  which 
hover  round  an  empty  word  !  Take  away  the  name  and 
the  grave  will  seem  to  be  a  bridal-bed  over  which  Aurora 
spreads  her  golden  canopy  and  spring  strews  her  fairest 
flowers.  None  but  a  groaning  sinner  pictures  death  as  a 
skeleton  ;  to  others  he  is  a  gentle,  smiling  boy,  blooming 
as  the  god  of  love,  but  not  so  false  — a  silent,  ministering 
spirit  who  guides  the  exhausted  pilgrim  through  the  desert 
of  eternity,  unlocks  for  him  the  fairy  palace  of  everlasting 
joy,  invites  him  in  with  friendly  smiles,  and  vanishes  for- 
ever ! 

MILL.  What  meanest  thou,  my  child  ?  Surely,  thou 
wilt  not  lay  guilty  hands  on  thine  own  life? 

LOUISA.  Speak  not  thus,  father  !  To  quit  a  commu- 
nity from  which  I  am  already  rejected,  to  fly  voluntarily 
to  a  place  from  which  I  cannot  much  longer  be  absent,  io 
that  a  sin  ? 

MILL.  Suicide  is  the  most  horrible  of  sins,  my  child. 
'Tis  the  only  one  that  can  never  be  repented,  since  death 
arrives  at  the  moment  the  crime  is  committed. 

LOUISA  (stands  motionless  with  horror).  That  is  dread- 
ful !  But  my  death  will  not  be  so  sudden,  father.  I  will 


LOVE    AND   INTEIGUE.  89 

spring  into  the  river,  and  while  the  waters  are  closing 
over  me,  cry  to  the  Almighty  for  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness! 

MILL.  That  is  to  say,  you  will  repent  the  theft  as 
soon  as  the  treasure  is  secure  !  Daughter  !  Daughter ! 
beware  how  you  mock  your  God  when  you  most  need  his 
help !  Oh !  you  have  gone  far,  far  astray !  You  have 
forgotten  the  worship  of  your  Creator,  and  he  has  with- 
drawn his  protecting  hand  from  you  ! 

LOUISA.     Is  it,  then,  a  crime  to  love,  father  ? 

MILL.  So  long  as  thou  lovest  God  thou  wilt  never  love 
man  to  idolatry.  Thou  hast  bowed  me  down  low,  my 
only  one  !  low !  very  low  !  perhaps  to  the  grave !  Yet 
will  I  not  increase  the  sadness  of  thy  heart.  Daughter ! 
I  gave  vent  to  my  feelings  as  I  entered.  I  thought  my- 
self alone  !  Thou  hast  overheard  me  !  and  why  should  I 
longer  conceal  the  truth.  Thou  wert  my  idol !  Hear 
me,  Louisa,  if  there  is  yet  room  in  thy  heart  for  a  father's 
feelings.  Thou  wert  my  all !  Of  thine  own  thou  hast 
nothing  more  to  lose,  but  I  have  my  all  at  stake!  My 
life  depends  on  thee  !  My  hairs  are  turning  gray,  Louisa ; 
they  show  that  the  time  is  drawing  nigh  with  me  when 
fathers  look  for  a  return  of  the  capital  invested  in  the 
hearts  of  their  children.  Wilt  thou  defraud  me  of  this, 
Louisa?  Wilt  thou  away  and  bear  with  thee  all  the 
wealth  of  thy  father  ? 

LOUISA  (kissing  his  hand  in  the  deepest  emotion).  No, 
father,  no !  I  go  from  this  world  deeply  in  your  debt, 
and  will  repay  you  with  usury  in  the  world  to  come. 

MILL.  Beware,  my  child,  lest  thy  reckoning  should  be 
false  !  (very  earnestly  and  solemnly}.  Art  thou  certain 
that  we  shall  meet  in  that  world  to  come?  Lo  !  how 
the  color  fades  from  thy  cheek !  My  child  must  feel  that 
I  can  scarcely  overtake  her  in  that  other  world  if  she 
hurries  there  before  rne.  (LouiSA  throws  herself  shud- 
dering into  his  arms,  he  clasps  her  warm.li/  to  his  bosom, 
and  continues  in  a  tone  of  fervent  adjuration.)  Oh! 
Louisa  !  Louisa !  Fallen,  perhaps  already  lost,  daughter ! 
Treasure  in  thy  heart  the  solemn  counsels  of  a  father ! 
I  cannot  eternally  watch  over  thee !  I  may  snatch  the 
dagger  from  thy  hands ;  but  thou  canst  let  out  life  with 


90  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

a  bodkin.  I  may  remove  poison  from  thy  reach ;  but 
thou  canst  strangle  thyself  with  a  necklace.  Louisa ! 
Louisa!  I  can  only  warn  thee.  Wilt  thou  rush  boldly 
forward  till  the  perfidious  phantom  which  lured  thee  on 
vanishes  at  the  awful  brink  of  eternity  ?  Wilt  thou  dare 
approach  the  throne  of  the  Omniscient  with  the  lie  on 
thy  lips?  "At  thy  call  am  I  here,  Creator!"  while  thy 
guilty  eyes  are  in  search  only  of  their  mortal  idol !  And 
when  thou  shalt  see  this  perishable  god  of  thine  own 
creation,  a  worm  like  thee,  writhing  at  the  Almighty's 
feet;  when  thou  shalt  hear  him  in  the  awful  moment 
give  the  lie  to  thy  guilty  daring,  and  blast  thy  delusive 
hopes  of  eternal  mercy,  which  the  wretch  implores  in  vain 
for  himself;  what  then!  {Louder  and  more  fervently}, 
What,  then,  unhappy  one  ?  (He  clasps  her  still  closer  to 
his  bosom,  and  gazes  upon  her  with  wild  aud  piercing 
looks ;  then  suddenly  disengages  himself.')  I  can  do  no 
more !  (Raising  his  right  hand  towards  heaven.)  Immor- 
tal Judge,  I  can  do  no  more  to  save  this  soul  from  ruin ! 
Louisa,  do  what  thou  wilt.  Offer  up  a  sacrifice  at  the 
altar  of  this  idolized  youth  that  shall  make  thy  evil  genius 
howl  for  transport  and  thy  good  angels  forsake  thee  in 
despair.  Go  on !  Heap  sin  upon  sin,  —  add  to  them 
this,  the  last,  the  heaviest,  —  and,  if  the  scale  be  still  too 
light  throw  in  my  curse  to  complete  the  measure.  Here 
is  a  knife ;  pierce  thy  own  heart,  and  (weeping  aloud  and 
rushing  away),  and  with  it,  thy  father's  ! 

LOUISA  (following  and  detaining  him).  Stay  !  stay  ! 
Oh  !  father,  father !  —  to  think  that  affection  should 
wound  more  cruelly  than  a  tyrant's  rage !  What  shall  I  ? 
—  I  cannot!  —  what  must  I  do? 

MILL.  If  thy  lover's  kisses  burn  hotter  than  thy 
father's  tears then  die  ! 

LOUISA  ( after  a  violent  internal  struggle,  firmly ). 
Father  !  Here  js  my  hand !  I  will  —  God  !  God  !  what  am 
I  doing  !  What  would  I  ?  —  father,  I  swear.  Woe  is  me  ! 
Criminal  that  I  am  where'er  I  turn  !  Father,  be  it  so  ! 
Ferdinand.  God,  look  down  upon  the  act !  Thus  I  de- 
stroy the  last  memorial  of  him.  (Tearing  the  letter.) 

MILL,  (throwing  himself  in  ecstasy  upon  her  neck). 
There  spoke  my  daughter!  Look  up,  my  child  !  Thou 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  91 

hast  lost  a  lover,  but  thou  hast  made  a  father  happy. 
(Embracing  her,  and  alternately  laughing  and  crying.) 
My  child  !  my  child!  I  was  not  worthy  to  live  so  blest  a 
moment !  God  knows  how  I,  poor  miserable  sinner,  be- 
came possessed  of  such  an  angel !  My  Louisa!  My  para- 
dise! Oh  !  I  know  but  little  of  love  ;  but  that  to  rend 
its  bonds  must  be  a  bitter  grief  I  can  well  believe! 

LOUISA.  But  let  us  hasten  from  this  place,  my  father ! 
Let  us  fly  from  the  city,  where  my  companions  scoff  at 
me,  and  my  good  name  is  lost  forever —  let  us  away,  far 
away,  from  a  spot  where  every  object  tells  of  my  ruined 
happiness, —  let  us  fly  if  it  be  possible  ! 

MILL.  Whither  thou  wilt,  my  daughter  !  The  bread 
of  the  Lord  grows  everywhere,  and  He  will  grant  ears  to 
listen  to  my  music.  Yes  !  we  will  fly  and  leave  all  behind. 
I  will  set  the  story  of  your  sorrows  to  the  lute,  and  sing 
of  the  daughter  who  rent  her  own  heart  to  preserve  her 
father's.  We  will  beg  with  the  ballad  from  door  to  door, 
and  sweet  will  be  the  alms  bestowed  by  the  hand  of 
weeping  sympathy ! 

SCENE  II. 
The  former  ;  FERDINAND. 

LOUISA  (who  perceives  him  first,  throws  herself  shrieking 
into  MILLER'S  arms).  God  !  There  he  is  !  I  am 
lost  ! 

MILL.     Who?    Where? 

LOUISA  (points,  with  averted  face,  to  the  MAJOR,  and 
presses  closer  to  her  father).  'Tis  he  !  'Tis  he !  himself  ! 
Look  round,  father,  look  round!  —  he  comes  to  murder 
me  ! 

MILL,  (perceives  him  and  starts  back).  How,  baron  ? 
You  here  ? 

FERD.  (approaches  slowly,  stands  opposite  to  LOUISA, 
and  fixes  a  stern  and  piercing  look  upon  her.  After  a 
pause,  he  says),  Stricken  conscience,  I  thank  thee  !  Thy 
confession  is  dreadful,  but  swift  and  true,  and  spares  me 
the  torment  of  an  explanation  !  Good  evening,  Miller ! 

MILL.  For  God's  sake  !  baron,  what  seek  you?  What 
brings  you  hither  ?  What  means  this  surprise? 


92  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

FBBD.  I  knew  a  time  when  the  day  was  divided  into 
seconds,  when  eagerness  for  my  presence  hung  upon  the 
weights  of  the  tardy  clock,  and  when  every  pulse-throb 
was  counted  until  the  moment  of  my  coming.  How  is  it 
that  I  now  surprise  ? 

MILL.  Oh,  leave  us,  leave  us,  baron !  If  but  one 
spark  of  humanity  still  linger  in  your  bosom;  —  if  you 
seek  not  utterly  to  destroy  her  whom  you  profess  to  love, 
fly  from  this  house,  stay  not  one  moment  longer.  The 
blessing  of  God  deserted  us  when  your  foot  first  crossed 
its  threshold.  You  have  brought  misery  under  a  roof 
where  all  before  was  joy  and  happiness.  Are  you  not 
yet  content  ?  Do  you  seek  to  deepen  the  wound  which 
your  fatal  passion  has  planted  in  the  heart  of  my  only 
child? 

FERD.  Strange  father,  I  have  come  to  bring  joyful 
tidings  to  your  daughter. 

MILL.  Perchance  fresh  hopes,  to  add  to  her  despair. 
Away,  away,  thou  messenger  of  ill!  Thy  looks  belie  thy 
words. 

FERD.  At  length  the  goal  of  my  hopes  appears  in 
view!  Lady  Milford,  the  most  fearful  obstacle  to  our 
love,  has  this  moment  fled  the  land.  My  father  sanctions 
my  choice.  Fate  grows  weary  of  persecuting  us,  and 
our  propitious  stars  now  blaze  in  the  ascendant  —  lam 
come  to  fulfil  my  plighted  troth,  and  to  lead  my  bride  to 
the  altar. 

MILL.  Dost  thou  hear  him,  my  child  ?  Dost  thou 
hear  him  mock  at  thy  cheated  hopes?  Oh,  truly,  baron ! 
It  is  so  worthy  of  the  deceiver  to  make  a  jest  of  his  own 
crime ! 

FERD.  You  think  I  am  jesting?  By  my  honor  I  am 
not !  My  protestations  are  as  true  as  the  love  of  my 
Louisa,  and  I  will  keep  them  as  sacred  as  she  has  kept 
her  oaths.  Nothing  to  me  is  more  sacred.  Can  you 
still  doubt?  Still  no  joyful  blush  upon  the  cheek  of  my 
fair  bride?  'Tis  strange  !  Falsehood  must  needs  be  here 
the  current  coin,  since  truth  finds  so  little  credit.  You 
mistrust  my  words,  it  seems  ?  Then  read  this  written 
testimony.  (He  throws  LOUISA  her  letter  to  the  MARSHAU 
She  opens  it,  and  sinks  upon  the  floor  pale  as  death.) 


LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE.  93 

MILL,  (not  observing  this).  What  can  this  mean, 
baron  ?  I  do  not  understand  you. 

FEED,  (leads  him  to  LOUISA).  But  your  daughter  has 
understood  me  well. 

MILL,  (throws  himself  on  his  knees  beside  her).  Oh, 
God  !  my  child  ! 

FERD.  Pale  as  a  corpse !  'Tis  thus  your  daughter 
pleases  me  the  best.  Your  demure  and  virtuous  daughter 
was  never  half  so  lovely  as  with  that  deathlike  paleness. 
The  blast  of  the  day  of  judgment,  which  strips  the 
varnish  from  every  lie,  has  wafted  the  painted  colors 
from  her  cheek,  or  the  juggler  might  have  cheated  even 
the  angels  of  light.  This  is  her  fairest  countenance. 
Now  for  the  first  time  do  I  see  it  in  its  truth.  Let  me 
kiss  it.  (He  approaches  her.) 

MILL.  Back !  Away,  boy !  Trifle  not  with  a  father's 
feelings.  I  could  not  defend  her  from  your  caresses,  but 
I  can  from  your  insults. 

FERD.  What  wouldst  thou,  old  man?  With  thee  I 
have  naught  to  do.  Engage  not  in  a  game  so  irrevocably 
lost.  Or  hast  thou,  too,  been  wiser  than  I  thought? 
Hast  thou  employed  the  wisdom  of  thy  sixty  years  in 
pandering  to  thy  daughter's  amours,  and  disgraced 
those  hoary  locks  with  the  office  of  a  pimp?  Oh!  if  it 
be  not  so,  wretched  old  man,  then  lay  thyself  down  and 
die.  There  is  still  time.  Thou  mayest  breathe  thy  last 
in  the  sweet  delusion,  "  I  was  a  happy  father !  "  Wait 
but  a  moment  longer  and  thine  own  hand  will  dash  to 
her  infernal  home  this  poisonous  viper;  thou  wilt  curse 
the  gift,  and  him  who  gave  it,  and  sink  to  the  grave  in 
blasphemy  and  despair.  (To  LOUISA.)  Speak,  wretched 
one,  speak  !  Didst  thou  write  this  letter  ? 

MILL,  (to  LOUISA,  impressively).  For  God's  sake, 
daughter,  forget  not !  forget  not ! 

LOUISA.     Oh,  father  —  that  letter ! 

FERD.  Oh  !  that  it  should  have  fallen  into  the  wrong 
hands.  Now  blessed  be  the  accident !  It  has  effected 
more  than  the  most  consummate  prudence,  and  will  at 
the  day  of  judgment  avail  more  than  the  united  wisdom 
of  sages.  Accident,  did  I  say  ?  Oh  !  Providence  directs 
when  a  sparrow  falls,  why  not  when  a  devil  is  un- 


94  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

masked?    But  I  will  be  answered  !    Didst  thou  write  that 
letter? 

MILL,  (to  LOUISA,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty).  Be  firm,  1113 
child,  be  firm !  But  a  single  "  Yes,"  and  all  will  be 
over. 

FERD.  Excellent!  excellent!  The  father,  too,  is 
deceived  !  All,  all  are  deceived  by  her !  Look,  how  the 
perfidious  one  stands  there ;  even  her  tongue  refuses 
participation  in  her  last  lie.  I  adjure  thee  by  that  God 
so  terrible  and  true  —  didst  thou  write  that  letter  ? 

LOUISA  (after  a  painful  struggle,  with  firmness  and 
decision).  I  did ! 

FERD.  (stands  aghast).  No !  As  my  soul  liveth,  thou 
hast  lied.  Even  innocence  itself,  when  extended  on  the 
rack,  confesses  crime  which  it  never  committed  —  I  ask 
too  passionately.  Is  it  not  so,  Louisa  ?  Thou  didst  but 
confess,  because  I  asked  passionately  ? 

LOUISA.     I  confessed  the  truth  ! 

FERD.  No,  I  tell  thee !  No !  no !  Thou  didst  not 
write  that  letter !  It  is  not  like  thy  hand  !  And,  even 
though  it  were,  why  should  it  be  more  difficult  to  coun- 
terfeit a  writing  than  to  undo  a  heart?  Tell  me  truly, 
Louisa !  Yet  no,  no,  do  not !  Thou  mightest  say  yes 
again,  and  then  I  were  lost  forever.  A  lie,  Louisa!  A 
lie !  Oh !  if  thou  didst  but  know  one  now  —  if  thou 
wouldst  utter  it  with  that  open  angelic  mien  —  if  thou 
wouldst  but  persuade  mine  ear  and  eye,  though  it 
should  deceive  my  heart  ever  so  monstrously !  Oh, 
Louisa!  Then  might  truth  depart  in  the  same  breath  — 
depart  from  our  creation,  and  the  sacred  cause  itself 
henceforth  bow  her  stiff  neck  to  the  courtly  arts  of 
deception. 

LOUISA.  By  the  Almighty  God !  by  Him  who  is  so 
terrible  and  true  !  I  did ! 

FERD.  (after  a  pause,  with  the  expression  of  the  most 
heartfelt  sorrow).  Woman !  Woman !  With  what  a 
face  thou  standest  now  before  me !  Offer  Paradise  with 
that  look,  and  even  in  the  regions  of  the  damned  thou 
wilt  find  no  purchaser.  Didst  thou  know  what  thou  wert 
tome,  Louisa?  Impossible!  No  J  thou  knewest  not 
that  thou  wert  myall  —  all!  'Tis  a  poor  insignificant 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  95 

word !  but  eternity  itself  can  scarcely  circumscribe  it. 
Within  it  systems  of  worlds  can  roll  their  mighty  orbs. 
All !  and  to  sport  with  it  so  wickedly.  Oh,  'tis  horrible. 

LOUISA.  Baron  von  Walter,  you  have  heard  my  con- 
fession !  I  have  pronounced  my  own  condemnation ! 
Now  go  !  Fly  from  a  house  where  you  have  been  so  un- 
happy. 

FERD.  'Tis  well!  'tis  well !  You  see  I  am  calm;  calm, 
loo,  they  say,  is  the  shuddering  land  through  which  the 
plague  has  swept.  I  am  calm.  Yet  ere  I  go,  Louisa,  one 
more  request!  It  shall  be  my  last.  My  brain  burns  with 
fever!  I  need  refreshment!  Will  you  make  me  some 
lemonade  ?  [.Exit  LOUISA. 

SCENE  III. 
FERDINAND  and  MILLER. 

They  both  pace  up  and  down  without  speaking,  on  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  room,  for  some  minutes. 

MILL,  (standing  still  at  length,  and  regarding  the  MAJOR 
with  a  sorrowful  air).  Dear  baron,  perhaps  it  may 
alleviate  your  distress  to  say  that  I  feel  for  you  most 
deeply. 

FERD.  Enough  of  this,  Miller.  (Silence  again  for 
some  moments.)  Miller,  I  forget  what  first  brought  me 
to  your  house.  What  was  the  occasion  of  it? 

MILL.  How,  baron  ?  Don't  you  remember  ?  You 
came  to  take  lessons  on  the  flute. 

FERD.  (suddenly}.  And  I  beheld  his  daughter!  (An- 
other pause.)  You  have  not  kept  your  faith  with  me, 
friend!  You  were  to  provide  me  with  repose  for  my 
leisure  hours  ;  but  you  betrayed  me  and  sold  me  scor- 
pions. (Observing  MILLER'S  agitation.)  Tremble  not, 
good  old  man  !  (falling  deeply  affected  on  his  neck)  — the 
fault  was  none  of  thine  ! 

MILL,  (loiping  his  eyes).     Heaven  knows,  it  was  not ! 

FERD.  (traversing  the  room,  plunged  in  the  most  gloomy 
meditation).  Strange  !  Oh  !  beyond  conception  strange, 
are  the  Almighty's  dealings  with  us  !  How  often  do  ter- 
rific weights  hang  upon  slender,  almost  invisible  threads ! 
Did  man  but  know  that  he  should  eat  death  in  a  particu- 


96  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

lar  apple !  Hem !  Could  he  but  know  that !  {He 
walks  a  few  more  turns  ;  then  stops  suddenly,  and  (/rasps 
MILLER'S  hand  with  strong  emotion.)  Friend,  I  have 
paid  dearly  for  thy  lessons  —  and  thou,  too,  hast  been  no 
gainer  —  perhaps  mayst  even  lose  thy  all.  (Quitting him 
dejectedly.)  Unhappy  flute-playing,  would  that  it  never 
entered  my  brain  ! 

MILL,  (striving  to  repress  his  feelings).  The  lemonade 
is  long  in  coming.  I  will  inquire  after  it,  if  you  will  ex- 
cuse me. 

FERD.  No  hurry,  dear  Miller  !  (Muttering  to  himself.) 
At  least  to  her  father  there  is  none.  Stay  here  a 
moment.  What  was  I  about  to  ask  you  ?  Ay,  I  remem- 
ber !  Is  Louisa  your  only  daughter  ?  Have  you  no 
other  child  ? 

MILL,  (warmly).  I  have  no  other,  baron,  and  I  wish 
for  no  other.  That  child  is  my  only  solace  in  this 
world,  and  on  her  have  I  embarked  my  whole  stock  of 
affection. 

FERD.  (much  agitated).  Ha!  Pray  see  for  the  drink, 
good  Miller !  [Exit  MILLER. 

SCENE  IV. 
FERDINAND  alone. 

FERD.  His  only  child  !  Dost  thou  feel  that,  murderer  ? 
His  only  one  !  Murderer,  didst  thou  hear,  his  only  one  ? 
The  man  has  nothing  in  God's  wide  world  but  his  instru- 
ment and  that  only  daughter !  And  wilt  thou  rob  him  of 
her  ? 

Rob  him  ?  Rob  a  beggar  of  his  last  pittance  ?  Break 
the  lame  man's  crutch,  and  cast  the  fragments  at  his  feet  ? 
How?  Have  I  the  heart  to  do  this?  And  when  he 
hastens  home,  impatient  to  reckon  in  his  daughter's  smiles 
the  whole  sum  of  his  happiness ;  and  when  he  enters  the 
chamber,  and  there  lies  the  rose  —  withered  —  dead  — 
crushed  —  his  last,  his  only,  his  sustaining  hope.  Ha  ! 
And  when  he  stands  before  her,  and  all  nature  looks  on  in 
breathless  horror,  while  his  vacant  eye  wanders  hopelessly 
through  the  gloom  of  futurity,  and  seeks  God,  but  finds 
him  nowhere,  and  then  returns  disappointed  and  despair- 
ing !  Great  God  !  and  has  not  my  father,  too,  an  only 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  97 

son  ?  an  only  child,  but  not  his  only  treasure.  {After  a 
pause.)  Yet  stay  !  What  will  the  old  man  lose  ?  She 
who  could  wantonly  jest  with  the  most  sacred  feelings  of 
love,  will  she  make  a  father  happy  ?  She  cannot !  She 
will  not !  And  I  deserve  thanks  for  crushing  this  viper 
ere  the  parent  feels  its  sting. 

SCENE  V. 
MILLER  returning,  and  FERDINAND. 

MILL.  You  shall  be  served  instantly,  baron !  The 
poor  thing  is  sitting  without,  weeping  as  though  her 
heart  would  break !  Your  drink  will  be  mingled  with 
her  tears. 

FERD.  'Twere  well  for  her  were  it  only  with  tears  ! 
We  were  speaking  of  my  lessons,  Miller.  (  Taking  out  a 
purse.}  I  remember  that  I  am  still  in  your  debt. 

MILL.  How?  What?  Go  along  with  you,  baron ! 
What  do  you  take  me  for?  There  is  time  enough  for 
payment.  Do  not  put  such  an  affront  on  me  ;  we  are  not 
together  for  the  last  time,  please  God. 

FERD.  Who  can  tell  ?  Take  your  money.  It  is  for 
life  or  death. 

MILL,  (laughing).  Oh  !  for  the  matter  of  that,  baron  ! 
As  regards  that  I  don't  think  I  should  run  much  risk 
with  you ! 

FERD.  You  would  run  the  greatest.  Have  you  never 
heard  that  youths  have  died.  That  damsels  and  youths 
have  died,  the  children  of  hope,  the  airy  castles  of  their 
dis;ippointed  parents?  What  is  safe  from  age  and  worms 
has  often  perished  by  a  thunderbolt.  Even  your  Louisa 
is  not  immortal. 

MILL.     God  gave  her  to  me. 

FERD.  Hoar  me !  I  say  to  you  your  Louisa  is  not 
immortal.  That  daughter  is  the  apple  of  your  eye;  you 
hang  upon  her  with  your  whole  heart  and  soul.  Be  pru- 
dent, Miller!  None 'but  a  desperate  gamester  stakes  his 
all  upon  a  single  cast.  The  merchant  would  be  called^  a 
madman  who  embarked  his  whole  fortune  in  one  ship. 
Think  upon  this,  and  remember  that  I  warned  you.  But 
why  do  you  not  take  your  money? 


98  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

MILL.  How,  baron,  how?  All  that  enormous  purse! 
What  can  you  be  thinking  of  ? 

FEBD.  Upon  my  debt !  There !  ( Throws  a  heavy 
purse  on  the  table  ;  some  gold  drops  out.)  I  cannot  hol<l 
the  dross  to  eternity. 

MILL,  (astonished).  Mercy  on  us!  what  is  this?  The 
sound  was  not  of  silver  !  (Goes  to  the  table  and  cries  o>  i 
in  astonishment.)  In  heaven's  name,  baron,  what  menu* 
this?  What  are  you  about?  You  must  be  out  of  your 
mind  !  (  Clasping  his  hands)  There  it  lies  !  or  I  am  be- 
witched. 'Tis  damnable  !  I  feel  it  now  ;  the  beauteous, 
shining,  glorious  heap  of  gold  !  No,  Satan,  thou  shalt  not 
catch  my  soul  with  this  ! 

FEBD.     Have  you  drunk  old  wine,  or  new,  Miller? 

MILL,  (violently).  Death  and  furies!  Look  yourself, 
then.  It  is  gold  ! 

FKRD.     And  what  of  that? 

MILL.  Let  me  implore  you,  baron !  In  the  name  of 
all  the  saints  in  heaven,  I  entreat  you  !  It  is  gold  ! 

FEBD.     Au  extraordinary  thing,  it  must  be  admitted. 

MILL,  (after  a  pause;  addressing  him  with  emotion). 
Noble  sir,  I  am  a  plain,  straightforward  man  —  do  you 
wish  to  tempt  me  to  some  piece  of  knavery? — for, 
heaven  knows,  that  so  much  gold  cannot  be  got  honestly  ! 

FEBD.  (moved).  Make  yourself  quite  easy,  dear  Miller  ! 
You  have  well  earned  the  money.  God  forbid  that  I 
should  use  it  to  the  corruption  of  your  conscience  ! 

MILL,  (jumping  about  like  a  madman).  It  is  mine, 
then!  Mine  indeed!  Mine  with  the  knowledge  and 
consent  of  God!  {Hastening  to  the  door.)  Daughter, 
wife,  hurrah,  come  hither!  (Returning.)  But,  for 
heaven's  sake,  how  have  I  all  at  once  deserved  this  awful 
treasure  ?  How  am  I  to  earn  it  ?  How  repay  it,  eh  ? 

FEBD.     Not  by  your  music  lessons,  Miller!     With  this 

fold  do  I  pay  you  for  (stops  suddenly •,  and  shudders) 
pay  you  —  (after  a  pause,  with  emotion)  —  for  my  three 
months'  unhappy  dream  of  your  daughter! 

MILL,  (taking  his  hand  and  pressing  it  affectionately). 
Most  gracious  sir !  were  you  some  poor  and  low-born 
citizen,  and  my  daughter  refused  your  love,  I  would 
pierce  her  heart  with  my  own  hands.  (Returning  to  the 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  99 

fold  in  a  sorrowful  tone.)  But  then  I  shall  have  all,  and 
you  nothing  —  and  I  should  have  to  give  up  all  this  glo- 
rious heap  again,  eh  ? 

FERD.  Let  not  that  thought  distress  you,  friend.  I  am 
about  to  quit  this  country,  and  in  that  to  which  I  am 
journeying  such  coin  is  not  current. 

MILL,  (still  fixing  his  eyes  in  transport  on  the  money). 
Mine,  then,  it  remains?  Mine?  Yet  it  grieves  me  that 
you  are  going  to  leave  us.  Only  just  wait  a  little  and 
you  shall  see  how  I'll  come  out !  I'll  hold  up  my  head 
with  the  best  of  them.  (Puts  on  his  hat  with  an  air, 
and  struts 'up  and  do'ion  the  room.)  I'll  give  my  lessons 
in  the  great  concert-room,  and  won't  I  smoke  away  at 
the  best  puyke  varinas —  and,  when  you  catch  me  again 
fiddling  at  the  penny-hop,  may  the  devil  take  me  ! 

FERD.  Stay,  Miller !  Be  silent,  and  gather  up  your 
gold.  (Mysteriously.)  Keep  silence  only  for  this  one 
evening,  and  do  me  the  favor  henceforward  to  give  no 
more  music  lessons. 

MILL,  (still  more  vehemently  grasping  his  hand,  full  of 
inward  joy).  And  my  daughter,  baron  !  my  daughter! 
(Letting  go.)  No,  no  !  Money  does  not  make  the  man 
—  whether  I  feed  on  vegetables  or  on  partridges,  enough 
is  enough,  and  this  coat  will  do  very  well  as  long  as  the 
sunbeams  don't  peep  in  at  the  elbows.  To  me  money  is 
mere  dross.  But  my  girl  shall  benefit  by  the  blessing; 
whatever  wish  I  can  read  in  her  eyes  shall  be  gratified. 

FERD.  (suddenly  interrupting  him).  Oh !  silence ! 
silence! 

MILL,  (still  more  warmly).  And  she  shall  learn  to 
speak  French  like  a  born  native,  and  to  dance  minuets, 
and  to  sing,  so  that  people  shall  read  of  her  in  the  news- 
papers ;  and  she  shall  wear  a  cap  like  the  judge's  daughter, 
and  a  kidebarri,  *  as  they  call  it ;  and  the  fiddler's 
daughter  shall  be  talked  of  for  twenty  miles  round. 

FERD.  (seizing  his  hand  in  extreme  agitation).  No 
more !  no  more  !  For  God's  sake  be  silent !  Be  silent 
but  for  this  one  night ;  'tis  the  only  favor  I  ask  of  you. 

*  Meaning,  no  doubt,  Cul  de  Paris,  a  bustle. 


100  LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE. 

SCENE  VI. 
LOUISA  with  a  glass  of  lemonade;  the  former. 

LOUISA  (her  eyes  swelled  with  weeping,  and  trembling 
voice,  while  she  presents  the  glass  to  FERDINAND).  Tel! 
me,  if  it  be  not  to  your  taste. 

FERD.  (takes  the  glass,  places  it  on  the  table,  and  turn* 
to  MILLER).  Oh  !  I  had  almost  forgotten  !  Good  Miller, 
I  have  a  request  to  make.  Will  you  do  me  a  little 
favor? 

MILL.  A  thousand  with  pleasure !  What  are  your 
commands? 

FERD.  My  father  will  expect  me  at  table.  Unfor- 
tunately I  am  in  very  ill  humor.  'Twould  be  insupport- 
able to  me  just  now  to  mix  in  society.  Will  you  go  to 
my  father  and  excuse  my  absence  ? 

LOUISA  (terrified,  interrupts  him  hastily).  Oh,  let  me 
go! 

MILL.     Am  I  to  see  the  president  himself  ? 

FERD.  Not  himself.  Give  your  message  to  one  of 
the  servants  in  the  ante-chamber.  Here  is  my  watch  as 
a  credential  that  I  sent  you.  I  shall  be  here  when  you  re- 
turn. You  will  wait  for  an  answer. 

LOUISA  (very  anxiously).  Cannot  I  be  the  bearer  of 
your  message  ? 

FERD.  (to  MILLER,  who  is  going).  Stay  —  one  tiling 
more  !  Here  is  a  letter  to  my  father,  which  I  received 
this  evening  enclosed  in  one  to  myself.  Perhaps  on  busi- 
ness of  importance.  You  may  as  well  deliver  it  at  the 
same  time. 

MILL,  (going).     Very  well,  baron  ! 

LOUISA  (stopping  him,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  t/<c 
most  exquisite  terror).  But,  dear  father,  I  could  do  all 
this  very  well !  Pray  let  me  go ! 

MILL.  It  is  night,  my  child !  and  you  must  not  venture 
out  alone !  \_Exit. 

FERD.  Light  your  father  down,  Louisa.  (LouiSA  takes 
a  candle  and  follows  MILLER.  FERDINAND  in  the  mean- 
time approaches  the  table  and  throws  poison  into  the 
lemonade).  Yes  !  she  must  die !  The  higher  powers  look 
down,  and  nod  their  terrible  assent.  The  vengeance  of 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  101 

heaven  subscribes  to  my  decree.     Her  good   angels  for- 
sake her,  and  leave  her  to  her  fate  1 


SCENE  VII. 
FERDINAND  and  LOUISA. 

LOUISA  re-enters  slowly  with  the  light,  places  it  on  the 
table,  and  stops  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  except  when  she  raises  them  to 
him  with  timid,  stolen  glances.  He  stands  opposite, 
looking  steadfastly  on  the  earth  —  a  long  and  deep 
silence. 

LOUISA.  If  you  will  accompany  me,  Baron  von  Wal- 
ter, I  will  try  a  piece  on  the  harpsichord  !  (She  opens  the 
instrument.  FERDINAND  makes  no  answer.  A  pause.) 

LOUISA.  You  owe  me  a  revenge  at  chess.  Will  you 
play  a  game  with  me,  Baron  von  Walter  ?  (Another 
pause.) 

LOUISA.  I  have  begun  the  pocketbook,  baron,  which  I 
promised  to  embroider  for  you.  Will  you  look  at  the 
design?  (Still  a  pause?) 

LOUISA.     Oh !  I  am  very  wretched ! 

FERD.  (without  changing  his  attitude).  That  may  well 
be  ! 

LOUISA.  It  is  not  my  fault,  Baron  von  Walter,  that 
you  are  so  badly  entertained  ! 

FERD.  (with  an  insulting  laugh).  You  are  not  to 
blame  for  my  bashful  modesty 

LOUISA.  I  am  quite  aware  that  we  are  no  longer  fit 
companions.  I  confess  that  I  was  terrified  when  you 
siMit  away  my  father.  I  believe,  Baron  von  Walter,  that 
tliis  moment  is  equally  insupportable  to  us  both.  Permit 
me  to  ask  some  of  my  acquaintances  to  join  us. 

FERD.  Yes,  pray  do  so  !  And  I  too  will  go  and  invite 
some  of  mine. 

LOUISA  (looking  at  him  with  surprise).  Baron  von 
Walter  ! 

FERD.  (very  spitefully).  By  my  honor,  the  most  fortu- 
nate idea  that  in  our  situation  could  ever  enter  mortal 


102  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

brain  ?  Let  us  change  this  wearisome  duet  into  sport 
and  merriment,  and  by  the  aid  of  certain  gallantries,  re- 
venge ourselves  on  the  caprices  of  love. 

LOUISA.     You  are  merry,  Baron  von  Walter ! 

FKUD.  Oh !  wonderfully  so !  The  very  street-boys 
would  hunt  me  through  the  market-place  for  a  merry-an- 
drew!  In  fact,  Louisa,  your  example  has  inspired  me  — 
you  shall  be  my  teacher.  They  are  fools  who  prate  of 
endless  affection  —  never-ending  sameness  grows  flat  and 
insipid  —  variety  alone  gives  zest  to  pleasure.  Have  with 
you,  Louisa,  we  are  now  of  one  mind.  We  will  skip  from 
amour  to  amour,  whirl  from  vice  to  vice;  you  in  one  di- 
rection, I  in  another.  Perhaps  I  may  recover  my  lost 
tranquillity  in  some  brothel.  Perhaps,  when  our  merry 
race  is  run,  and  we  become  two  mouldering  skeletons, 
chance  again  may  bring  us  together  with  the  most  pleas- 
ing surprise,  and  we  may,  as  in  a  melodrama,  recognize 
each  other  by  a  common  feature  of  disease  —  that  mother 
whom  her  children  can  never  disavow.  Then,  perhaps, 
disgust  and  shame  may  create  that  union  between 
us  which  could  not  be  effected  by  the  most  tender 
love. 

LOUISA.  Oh,  Walter  !  Walter !  Thou  art  already  un- 
happy—  wilt  thou  deserve  to  be  so? 

FEED,  (muttering passionately  through  his  teeth).  Un- 
happy ?  Who  told  thee  so  ?  Woman,  thou  art  too  vile 
to  have  any  feelings  of  thine  own ;  how,  then,  canst  thou 
judge  of  the  feelings  of  others?  Unhappy,  did  she  say? 
—  ha !  that  word  would  call  my  anger  from  the  grave ! 
She  knew  that  I  must  become  unhappy.  Death  and 
damnation  !  she  knew  it,  and  yet  betrayed  me  !  Look  to 
it,  serpent!  That  was  thy  only  chance  of  forgiveness. 
This  confession  lias  condemmed  thee.  Till  no\v  I  thought 
to  palliate  thy  crime  with  thy  simplicity,  and  in  my  con- 
tempt thou  hadst  well  nigh  escaped  my  vengeance  (seiz- 
ing the  glass  hastily}.  Thou  wert  not  thoughtless,  then 
—  thou  wert  not  simple  —  thou  wert  nor  more  nor  less 
than  a  devil !  (He  drinks.)  The  drink  is  bad,  like  thy 
soul !  Taste  it ! 

LOUISA.  Oh,  heavens !  'Twas  not  without  reason  that 
I  dreaded  this  meeting. 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  103 

FRED,  (imperiously}.     Drink  !  I  say. 

[LOUISA,  offended,  takes  the  glass  and  drinks.  The 
moment  she  raises  the  cup  to  her  lips,  FERDI- 
NAND turns  away  with  a  sudden  paleness,  and 
recedes  to  the  further  corner  of  the  chamber.] 

LOUISA.     The  lemonade  is  good. 

FERD.  (his  face  averted  and  shuddering.)  Much  good 
may  it  do  thee! 

LOUISA  (sets  down  the  glass).  Oh !  could  you  but  know, 
Walter,  how  cruelly  you  wrong  me ! 

FERD.     Indeed ! 

LOUISA.     A  time  will  come,  Walter 

FERD.  (advancing ).     Oh  !   we  have  done  with  time. 

LOUISA.  When  the  remembrance  of  this  evening  will 
lie  heavy  on  your  heart ! 

FERD.  (begins  to  walk  to  and  fro  more  vehemently,  and 
to  become  more  agitated ;  he  throws  away  his  sash  and 
sword.)  Farewell  the  prince's  service ! 

LOUISA.     My  God  !   what  mean  you! 

FERD.  I  am  hot,  and  oppressed.  I  would  be  more  at 
ease. 

LOUISA.     Drink  !  drink  !  it  will  cool  you. 

FERD.  That  it  will,  most  effectually.  The  strumpet, 
though,  is  kind-hearted  !  Ay,  ay,  so  are  they  all ! 

LOUISA  (rushing  into  his  arms  with  the  deepest  expres- 
sion of  love).  That  to  thy  Louisa,  Ferdinand? 

FERD.  (thrusting  her  from  him).  Away !  away ! 
Hence  with  those  soft  and  melting  eyes !  they  subdue 
me.  Come  to  me,  snake,  in  all  thy  monstrous  terrors ! 
Spring  upon  me,  scorpion !  Display  thy  hideous  folds, 
and  rear  thy  proud  coils  to  heaven !  Stand  before  my 
eyes,  hateful  as  the  abyss  of  hell  e'er  saw  thee  !  but  not 
in  that  angel  form  !  Take  any  shape  but  that!  Tis  too 
late.  I  must  crush  thee  like  a  viper,  or  despair !  Mercy 
on  thy  soul ! 

LOUISA.     Oh  !  that  it  should  come  to  this ! 

FERD.  (gazing  on  her).  So  fair  a  work  of  the  heavenly 
artist!  Who  would  believe  it?  Who  can  believe  it? 
(Taking  her  hand  and  elevating  it.)  I  will  not  arraign 
thy  ordinations,  oh !  incomprehensible  Creator !  Yet 
wherefore  didst  thou  pour  thy  poison  into  such  beauteous 


104  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

vessels  ?  Can  crime  inhabit  so  fair  a  region  ?  Oh !  'tis 
strange !  'tis  passing  strange  ! 

LOUISA.  To  hear  this,  and  yet  be  compelled  to 
silence ! 

FERD.  And  that  soft,  melodious  voice !  How  can 
broken  chords  discourse  such  harmony?  (Gazing  rap- 
turously upon  her  figure.)  All  so  lovely  !  so  full  of  sym- 
metry !  so  divinely  perfect !  Throughout  the  whole  sucli 
signs  that  'twas  the  favorite  work  of  God !  By  heaven, 
as  though  all  mankind  had  been  created  but  to  practise 
the  Creator,  ere  he  modelled  this  his  masterpiece  !  And 
that  the  Almighty  should  have  failed  in  the  soul  alone? 
Is  it  possible  that  this  monstrous  abortion  of  nature 
should  have  escaped  as  perfect  ?  (  Quitting  her  hastily.} 
Or  did  God  see  an  angel's  form  rising  beneath  his  chisel, 
and  balance  the  error  by  giving  her  a  heart  wicked  in 
proportion  ? 

LOUISA.  Alas  for  this  criminal  wilfulness !  Rather 
than  confess  his  own  rashness,  he  accuses  the  wisdom  of 
heaven ! 

FEED,  (falls  upon  her  neck,  weeping  bitterly).  Yet 
once  more,  my  Louisa !  Yet  once  again,  as  on  the  day 
of  our  first  kiss,  when  you  faltered  forth  the  name  of  Fer- 
dinand, and  the  first  endearing  "Thou!"  trembled  on 
thy  burning  lips.  Oh !  a  harvest  of  endless  and  unutter- 
able joys  seemed  to  me  at  that  moment  to  be  budding 
forth.  There  lay  eternity  like  a  bright  May-day  before 
our  eyes;  thousands  of  golden  years,  fair  as  brides, 
danced  around  our  souls.  Then  was  I  so  happy !  Oh  ! 
Louisa!  Louisa!  Louisa!  Why  hast  thou  used  me 
thus  ? 

LOUISA.  Weep,  Walter,  weep !  Your  compassion 
will  be  more  just  towards  me  than  your  wrath. 

FEED.  You  deceive  yourself.  These  are  not  nature's 
tears !  not  that  warm  delicious  dew  which  flows  like 
balsam  on  the  wounded  soul,  and  drives  the  chilled  cur- 
rent of  feeling  swiftly  along  its  course.  They  are  solitary 
ice-cold  drops !  the  awful,  eternal  farewell  of  my  love ! 
(With  fearful  solemnity,  laying  his  hand  on  her  head.} 
They  are  tears  for  thy  soul,  Louisa!  tears  for  the  Deity, 
whose  inexhaustible  beneficence  has  here  missed  its  aim, 


LOVE    AIS7D    INTRIGUE.  105 

and  whose  noblest  work  is  cast  away  thus  wantonly.  Oh  ! 
methinks  the  whole  universe  should  clothe  itself  in  black, 
and  weep  at  the  fearful  example  now  passing  in  its  centre. 
"Tis  but  a  common  sorrow  when  mortals  fall  and  Paradise 
is  lost ;  but,  when  the  plague  extends  its  ravages  to 
angels,  then  should  there  be  wailing  throughout  the  whole 
creation ! 

LOUISA.  Drive  me  not  to  extremities,  Walter.  I 
have  fortitude  equal  to  most,  but  it  must  not  be  tried  by 
a  more  than  human  test.  Walter  !  one  word,  and  then 
—  we  part  forever.  A  dreadful  fatality  has  deranged 
the  language  of  our  hearts.  Dared  I  tuielose  these  lips, 

Walter,  I  could  tell  thee  things!    I  could But  cruel 

fate  has  alike  fettered  my  tongue  and  my  heart,  and  I 
must  endure  in  silence,  even  though  you  revile  me  as  a 
common  strumpet. 

FEED.     Dost  thou  feel  well,  Louisa? 

LOUISA.     Why  that  question  ? 

FEED.  It  would  grieve  me  shouldst  thou  be  called 
hence  with  a  lie  upon  thy  lips. 

LOUISA.     I  implore  you,  Walter 

FERD.  (in  violent  agitation).  No!  no!  That  re- 
venge were  too  satanic!  No!  God  forbid!  I  will 
not  extend  my  anger  beyond  the  grave  !  Louisa,  didst 
thou  love  the  marshal  ?  Thou  wilt  leave  this  room  no 
more  ! 

LOUISA  (sitting  down).  Ask  what  you  will.  I  shall 
give  no  answer. 

FERD.  (in  a  solemn  voice).  Take  heed  for  thy  immor- 
tal soul!  Louisa!  Didst  thou  love  the  marshal?  Thou 
wilt  leave  this  room  no  more! 

LOUISA.     I  shall  give  no  answer. 

FERD.  (throwing  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  in  the 
deepest  emotion).  Louisa  !  Didst  thou  love  the  marshal  ? 
Before  this  light  burns  out  — thou  wilt  stand  —  before 
the  throne  of  God  ! 

LOUISA  (starting  from  her  seat  in  terror).  Merciful* 
Jesus !  what  was  that  ?  And  I  feel  so  ill !  (She  falls 
back  into  her  cfiair.) 

FERD.  Already?  Oh,  woman,  thou  eternal  paradox'. 
thy  delicate  nerves  can  sport  with  crimes  at  which  man- 


106  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

hood  trembles ;  yet  one  poor  grain  of  arsenic  destroys 
them  utterly ! 

LOUISA.     Poison  !  poison  !  Oh  !  Almighty  God  ! 

FEED.  I  fear  it  is  so  !  Thy  lemonade  was  seasoned 
in  hell !  Thou  hast  pledged  death  in  the  draught ! 

LOUISA.  To  die!  To  die  !  All-merciful  God  !  Poison 
in  my  drink  !  And  to  die  !  Oh  !  have  mercy  on  my  soul, 
thou  Father  in  heaven  ! 

FEKD.  Ay,  be  that  thy  chief  concern  :  I  will  join  thce 
in  that  prayer. 

LOUISA.  And  my  mother  !  My  father,  too  !  Saviour 
of  the  world  !  My  poor  forlorn  father!  Is  there  then 
no  hope?  And  I  so  young,  and  yet  no  hope?  And 
must  I  die  so  soon  ? 

FEUD.  There  is  no  hope  !  None  !  —  you  are  already 
doomed  !  But  be  calm.  We  shall  journey  together. 

LOUISA.  Thou  too,  Ferdinand  ?  Poison,  Ferdinand  ! 
From  thee  !  Oh  !  God  forgive  him  !  God  of  mercy,  lay 
not  this  crime  on  him ! 

FEED.  Look  to  your  own  account.  I  fear  it  stands 
but  ill. 

LOUISA.  Ferdinand!  Ferdinand!  Oh!  I  can  be  no 
longer  silent.  Death —  death  absolves  all  oaths.  Ferdi- 
nand !  Heaven  and  earth  contain  nothing  more  unfor- 
tunate than  thou  !  I  die  innocent,  Ferdinand  ! 

FEUD,  (terrified}.  Ah  !  What  do  I  hear?  Would 
she  rifsh  into  the  presence  of  her  Maker  with  a  lie  on  her 
lips? 

LOUISA.  I  lie  not  !  I  do  not  lie !  In  my  whole  life 
I  never  lied  but  once !  Ugh !  what  an  icy  shivering 
creeps  through  my  veins !  When  I  wrote  that  letter  to 
the  marshal. 

FERD.  Ha !  That  letter !  Blessed  be  to  God  !  Now 
I  am  myself  again  ! 

LOUISA  (her  voice  ei'en/  moment  becomes  more  indistinct. 
Her  fingers  tremble  irith  a  convulsive  motion).  That  let- 
ter. Prepare  yourself  for  a  terrible  disclosure  !  My 
hand  wrote  what  my  heart  abhorred.  It  was  dictated  by 
your  father  !  (Ferdinand  stands  like  a  statue  petrified 
with  horror.  After  a  long  silence,  he  falls  upon  the  floor 
as  if  struck  by.  lightning.}  Oh !  that  sorrowful  act  I 


LOVE    AND   INTRIGUE.  107 

Ferdinand  —  I  was  compelled  —  forgive  me  —  thy  Louisa 
would  have  preferred  death — but  my  father — his  life 
in  danger !  They  were  so  crafty  in  their  villany. 

FEED,  (starting  furiously  from  the  ground).  God 
be  thanked  !  The  poison  spares  me  yet !  (He  seizes  his 
sword.) 

LOUISA  (growing  weaker  by  degrees').  Alas !  what 
would  you?  He  is  thy  father! 

FERD.  (in  the  most  ungovernable  fury).  A  murderer 
—  the  murderer  of  his  son;  he  must  along  with  us  that 
the  Judge  of  the  world  may  pour  his  wrath  on  the  guilty 
alone.  (Hastening  away). 

LOUISA.  My  dying  Redeemer  pardoned  his  murder- 
ers, —  may  God  pardon  thee  and  thy  father !  (/She 
dies.) 

FERD.  (turns  quickly  round,  and  perceives  her  in  the 
convulsions  of  death,  throws  himself  distractedly  on  the 
body).  Stay!  stay!  Fly  not  from  me,  angel  of  light! 
(  Takes  her  hand,  but  lets  it  fall  again  instantly.)  Cold  ! 
cold  and  damp  !  her  soul  has  flown  !  (Starting  up  sud- 
denly.) God  of  my  Louisa !  Mercy  !  Mercy  for  the 
most  accursed  of  murderers !  Such  was  her  dying 
prayer !  How  fair,  how  lovely  even  in  death !  The 
pitying  destroyer  has  touched  gently  on  those  heavenly 
features.  That  sweetness  was  no  mask  —  the  hand  of 
death  even  has  not  removed  it!  (After  a  pause.)  But 
how  is  this?  why  do  I  feel  nothing.  Will  the  vigor  of 
my  youth  save  me  ?  Thankless  care  !  That  shall  it  not. 
(He  seizes  the  glass.) 

SCENE  VIII. 

FERDINAND,  the  PRESIDENT,  WORM,  and  SERVANTS,  who 
all  rush  in  alarm  into  the  room.  Afterwards  MILLER, 
with  a  crowd,  and  OFFICERS  of  justice,  who  assemble  in 
the  background. 

PRES.  (an  open  letter  in  his  hand).  My  son!  what 
means  this?  I  never  can  believe* 

FERD.  (throwing  the  glass  at  his  feet).  Convince  thy- 
self, murderer !  ( The  PRESIDENT  staggers  back.  All 
\tand  speechless.  A  dreadful  pause.) 


108  LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE. 

PBES.    My  son  !     Why  hast  thou  done  this  ? 

FEED,  (without  looking  at  him).  Why,  to  be  sure ! 
I  ought  first  to  have  asked  the  statesman  whether  the 
trick  suited  his  cards.  Admirably  fine  and  skilful,  I  con- 
fess, was  the  scheme  of  jealousy  to  break  the  bond  of  our 
hearts  !  The  calculation  shows  a  master-mind  ;  'twas 
pity  only  that  indignant  love  would  not  move  on  wires 
like  thy  wooden  puppets. 

PKES.  (looking  round  the  circle  with  rolling  eyes). 
Is  there  no  one  here  who  weeps  for  a  despairing 
father? 

MILL,  (calling  behind  the  scenes).  Let  me  in!  For 
God's  sake,  let  me  in  ! 

FERD.  She  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven !  Her  cause  is  in 
the  hands  of  another  !  (He  opens  the  door  for  MILLER, 
who  rushes  in,  followed  by  officers  of  justice  and  a  crowd 
of  people.} 

MILL,  (in  the  most  dreadful  alarm).  My  child !  My 
child!  Poison,  they  cry  —  poison  has  been  here!  My 
daughter !  Where  art  thou  ? 

FERD.  (leading  him  between  the  PRESIDENT  and  LOUISA'S 
corpse).  I  am  innocent.  Thank  this  man  for  the  deed. 

MILL,  (throwing  himself  on  the  body).     Oh,  Jesus! 

FRED.  In  few  words,  father !  —  they  begin  to  be 
precious  to  me.  I  have  been  robbed  of  my  life  by  vil- 
lanous  artifice  —  robbed  of  it  by  you!  How  I  may  stand 
with  God  I  tremble  to  think,  but  a  deliberate  villain 
I  have  never  been  !  Be  my  final  judgment  what  it 
will,  may  it  not  fall  on  thee  !  But  I  have  committed 
murder!  (In  a  loud  and  fearful  voice.)  A  murder 
whose  weight  thou  canst  not  hope  that  I  should  drag 
alone  before  the  judgment-seat  of  God.  Here  I  solemnly 
bequeath  to  thee  the  heaviest,  the  bloodiest  part;  how 
thou  mayst  answer  it  be  that  thy  care!  (Leading  him 
to  LOUISA.)  Here,  barbarian  !  Feast  thine  eyes  on  the 
terrible  fruits  of  thy  intrigues !  Upon  this  face  thy  name 
is  inscribed  in  the  convulsions  of  death,  and  will  be 
registered  by  the  destroying  angel !  May  a  form  like 
this  draw  thy  curtain  when  thou  sleepest,  and  grasp  thee 
with  its  clay-cold  hand  !  May  a  form  like  this  flit  before 
thy  soul  when  thou  diest,  and  drive  away  thy  expiring 


LOVE    AND    INTRIGUE.  109 

prayer  for  mercy !  May  a  form  like  this  stand  by  thy 
grave  at  the  resurrection,  and  before  the  throne  of  God 
Avhen  he  pronounces  thy  doom  !  (He  faints,  the  servants 
receive  him  in  their  arms.) 

PEES,  (extending  his  arms  convulsively  tmcards  heaven). 
Not  from  me,  Judge  of  the  world.  Ask  not  these  souls 
from  me,  but  from  him  !  (Pointing  to  WORM.) 

WORM  (starting).     From  me? 

PRES.  Accursed  villain,  from  thee  !  From  thee, 
Satan  !  Thou  gavest  the  serpent's  counsel !  thine  be  the 
responsibility ;  their  blood  be  not  on  my  head,  but  on 
thine ! 

WORM.  On  mine !  on  mine !  (laughing  hysterically.) 
Oh !  Excellent !  Now  I  understand  the  gratitude  of 
devils.  On  mine,  thou  senseless  villain  !  Was  he  my 
son?  Was  I  thy  master?  Mine  the  responsibility  ?  Ha! 
by  this  sight  which  freezes  the  very  marrow  in  my  bones  ! 
Mine  it  shall  be  !  I  will  brave  destruction,  but  thou  shalt 
perish  with  me.  Away !  away !  Cry  murder  in  the 
streets  !  Awaken  justice  !  Bind  me,  officers  !  Lead  me 
hence !  I  will  discover  secrets  which  shall  make  the 
hearer's  blood  run  cold.  (Going.) 

PRES.  (detaining  him).  Surely,  madman,  thou  wilt 
not  dare? 

WORM  (tapping  him  on  the  shoulder).  I  will,  though, 
comrade,  I  will !  I  am  mad,  'tis  true ;  but  my  madness 
is  thy  work,  and  now  I  will  act  like  a  madman !  Arm  in 
arm  with  thee  will  I  to  the  scaffold  !  Arm  in  arm  with 
thee  to  hell !  Oh  !  how  it  tickles  my  fancy,  villain,  to  be 
damned  with  thee  !  (The  officers  carry  him  off.) 

MILL,  (who  has  lain  upon  LOUISA'S  corpse  in  silent 
anguish,  starts  suddenly  up,  and  throws  the  purse  before 
the  MAJOR'S  feet.)  Poisoner,  take  back  thy  accursed 
gold  !  Didst  thou  think  to  purchase  my  child  with  it  ? 
( Rushes  distractedly  out  of  the  chamber.) 

FERD.  (in  a  voice  scarcely  audible) .  Follow  him  !  He 
is  desperate.  The  gold  must  be  taken  care  of  for  his  use ; 
'tis  the  dreadful  acknowlegment  of  my  debt  to  him. 
Louisa,  I  come  !  Farewell !  On  this  altar  let  me  breathe 
my  last. 

PRES.  (recovering  from  his  stupor).    Ferdinand!    my 


110  LOVE   AND   INTRIGUE. 

son !    Not  one  last  look  for  a  despairing  father  ?     (FER- 
DINAND is  laid  by  the  side  of  LOUISA.) 

FERD.     My  last  must  sue  to  God  for  mercy  on  myself. 

PRES.  (falling  down  before  him  in  the  most  dreadful 
agony).  The  Creator  and  the  created  abandon  me! 
Xot  one  last  look  to  cheer  me  in  the  hour  of  death  ! 
(FERDINAND  stretches  out  his  trembling  hand  to  him,  and 
expires.) 

PRES.    (springing   up).      He   forgave   me!      (To   the 
OFFICERS.)     Now,  lead  on,  sirs  !     I  am  your  prisoner. 
it,  followed  by  the  OFFICERS;  the  curtain  falls. 


WALLE^STEI^'S    CAMP, 

TRANSLATED  BY  JAMES  CHURCHILL. 

THE  PICCOLOMINI, 

AND 

THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEItf, 

BY  S.  T.  COLERIDGE. 
INCLUDING  SCENES  AND  PASSAGES  HITHERTO  OMITTED. 


"  Upon  the  whole  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  trilogy  forms,  in  its 
original  tongue,  one  of  the  most  splendid  specimens  of  tragic  art  the  world 
has  witnessed  ;  and  none  at  all,  that  the  execution  of  the  version  from  which 
we  have  quoted  so  largely,  places  Mr.  Coleridge  in  the  very  first  rank  of 
poetical  translators.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  solitary  example  of  a  man  of  very 
great  original  genius  submitting  to  all  the  labors,  and  reaping  all  the  honors 
of  this  species  of  literary  exertion."  —  Blaekwood,  1823. 


THE  Camp  of  Wallenstein  is  an  introduction  to  the  cele- 
brated tragedy  of  that  name ;  and,  by  its  vivid  portrait- 
ure of  the  state  of  the  general's  army,  gives  the  best  clue 
to  the  spell  of  his  gigantic  power.  The  blind  belief 
entertained  in  the  unfailing  success  of  his  arms,  and  in 
the  supernatural  agencies  by  which  that  success  is 
secured  to  him;  the  unrestrained  indulgence  of  every 
passion,  and  utter  disregard  of  all  law,  save  that  of  the 
camp;  a  hard  oppression  of  the  peasantry  and  plunder 
of  the  country,  have  all  swollen  the  soldiery  with  an 
idea  of  interminable  sway.  But  as  we  have  translated 
the  whole,  we  shall  leave  these  reckless  marauders  to 
speak  for  themselves. 

Of  Schiller's  opinion  concerning  the  Camp,  as  a  neces- 
sary introduction  to  the  tragedy,  the  following  passage 
taken  from  the  prologue  to  the  first  representation,  will 
give  a  just  idea,  and  may  also  serve  as  a  motto  to  the 
work :  — 

"  Not  he  it  is,  who  on  the  tragic  scene 
Will  now  appear  —  but  in  the  fearless  bands 
Whom  his  command  alone  could  sway,  and  whom 
His  spirit  fired,  you  may  his  shadow  see, 
Until  the  bashful  Muse  shall  dare  to  bring 
Himself  before  you  in  a  living  form  ; 
For  power  it  was  that  bore  his  heart  astray 
His  Camp,  alone,  elucidates  his  crime." 


THE  CAMP  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Sergeant-Major  \      of  a  regiment  of  Recruit. 

Trumpeter,          ]  Terzky's  carabineers.  Citizen. 

Artilleryman,  Peasant, 

Sharpshooters.  Peasant  Boy. 

Mounted  Yagers,  of  Hoik's  corps.  Capuchin. 

Dragoons,  of  Butler's  regiment.  Regimental  Schoolmaster. 

Arquebusiers,  of  Tiefenbach's  regiment.  Sutler-Woinan. 

Cuirassier,  of  a  Walloon  regiment.  Servant  Girl. 

Cuirassier,  of  a  Lombard  regiment.  Soldiers'  Boys. 

Croats.  Musicians. 

Hulans. 

(SCENE.  —  The  Camp  before  Pilsen,  in  Bohemia.) 


SCENE  I. 

Sutlers'  tents  —  in  front,  a  Slop-shop.  Soldiers  of  all 
colors  and  uniforms  thronging  about.  Tables  alljilled. 
Croats  and  Hulans  cooking  at  a  fire.  Sutler-woman 
serving  out  wine.  Soldier-boys  throwing  dice  on  a 
drum-head.  Singing  heard  from  the  tent. 

Enter  a  Peasant  and  his  Son. 

SON. 

Father,  I  fear  it  will  come  to  harm, 

So  let  us  be  off  from  this  soldier  swarm; 

But  boist'rous  mates  will  ye  find  in  the  shoal  — 

Twere  better  to  bolt  while  our  skins  are  whole. 

FATHER. 

How  now,  boy !  the  fellows  wont  eat  us,  though 
They  may  be  a  little  unruly,  or  so. 
See,  yonder,  arriving  a  stranger  train, 
Fresh  comers  are  they  from  the  Saal  and  Mayne  j 

111 


114  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

Much  booty  they  bring  of  the  rarest  sort  — 
'Tis  ours,  if  we  cleverly  drive  our  sport. 
A  captain,  who  fell  by  his  comrade's  sword, 
This  pair  of  sure  dice  to  me  transferred ; 
To-day  I'll  just  give  them  a  trial  to  see 
If  their  knack's  as  good  as  it  used  to  be. 
You  must  play  the  part  of  a  pitiful  devil, 
For  these  roaring  rogues,  who  so  loosely  revel, 
Are  easily  smoothed,  and  tricked,  and  flattered, 
And,  free  as  it  came,  their  gold  is  scattered. 
But  we  —  since  by  bushels  our  all  is  taken, 
By  spoonfuls  must  ladle  it  back  again ; 
And,  if  with  their  swords  they  slash  so  highly, 
We  must  look  sharp,  boy,  and  do  them  slyly. 

[Singing  and  shouting  in  the  tent 
Hark,  how  they  shout !     God  help  the  day  ! 
'Tis  the  peasant's  hide  for  their  sport  must  pay. 
Eight  months  in  our  beds  and  stalls  have  they 
Been  swarming  here,  until  far  around 
Not  a  bird  or  a  beast  is  longer  found, 
And  the  peasant,  to  quiet  his  craving  maw, 
Has  nothing  now  left  but  his  bones  to  gnaw. 
Ne'er  were  we  crushed  with  a  heavier  hand, 
When  the  Saxon  was  lording  it  o'er  the  land : 
And  these  are  the  Emperor's  troops,  they  say ! 

SON. 

From  the  kitchen  a  couple  are  coming  this  way, 
Not  much  shall  we  make  by  such  blades  as  they. 

FATHER. 

They're  born  Bohemian  knaves — the  two  — 
Belonging  to  Terzky's  carabineers, 
Who've  lain  in  these  quarters  now  for  years; 
The  worst  are  they  of  the  worthless  crew. 
Strutting,  swaggering,  proud  and  vain, 
They  seem  to  think  they  may  well  disdain 
With  the  peasant  a  glass  of  his  wine  to  drain 
But,  soft  —  to  the  left  o'  the  fire  I  see 
Three  riflemen,  who  from  the  Tyrol  should  be 
Emmerick,  come,  boy,  to  them  will  we. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  115 

Birds  of  this  feather  'tis  luck  to  find, 

Whose  trim's  so  spruce,  and  their  purse  well  lined. 

[  They  move  towards  the  tent. 

SCENE  II. 
The  above  —  /Sergeant-Major,  Trumpeter,  Hulan. 

TEUMPETEB. 

What  would  the  boor?    Out,  rascal,  away! 

PEASANT. 

Some  victuals  and  drink,  worthy  masters,  I  pray, 
For  not  a  warm  morsel  we've  tasted  to  day. 

TRUMPETER. 

Ay,  guzzle  and  guttle  —  'tis  always  the  way. 
HULAN  (with  a  glass). 

Not  broken  your  fast !  there  —  drink,  ye  hound  ! 

He  leads  the  peasant  to  the  tent — the  others  come  forward. 

SERGEANT  (to  the  Trumpeter). 

Think  ye  they've  done  it  without  good  ground  ? 
Is  it  likely  they  double  our  pay  to-day, 
Merely  that  we  may  be  jolly  and  gay  ? 

TRUMPETER. 

Why,  the  duchess  arrives  to-day,  we  know, 
And  her  daughter  too  — 

SERGEANT. 

Tush  !  that's  mere  show  — 
'Tis  the  troops  collected  from  other  lands 
Who  here  at  Pilsen  have  joined  our  bands  — 
We  must  do  the  best  we  can  t'  allure  'em, 
With  plentiful  rations,  and  thus  secure  'em. 
Where  such  abundant  fare  they  find, 
A  closer  league  with  us  to  bind 

TRUMPETER. 

Yes!  — there's  something  in  the  wind. 


116  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SERGEANT. 

The  generals  and  commanders  too  — 

TRUMPETER. 

A  rather  ominous  sight,  'tis  true. 

SERGEANT. 

Who're  met  together  so  thickly  here  — 

TRUMPETER. 

Have  plenty  of  work  on  their  hands,  that's  clear. 

SERGEANT. 

The  whispering  and  sending  to  and  fro  — 

TRUMPETER. 

Ay!     Ay! 

SERGEANT. 

The  big-wig  from  Vienna,  I  trow, 
Who  since  yesterday's  seen  to  prowl  about 
In  his  golden  chain  of  office  there  — 
Something's  at  the  bottom  of  this,  I'll  swear. 

TRUMPETER. 

A  bloodhound  is  he  beyond  a  doubt, 
By  whom  the  duke's  to  be  hunted  out. 

SERGEANT. 

Mark  ye  well,  man  !  —  they  doubt  us  now, 
And  they  fear  the  duke's  mysterious  brow; 
He  hath  clomb  too  high  for  them,  and  fain 
Would  they  beat  him  down  from  his  perch  again. 

TRUMPETER. 

But  we  will  hold  him  still  on  high  — 
That  all  would  think  as  you  and  I ! 

SERGEANT. 

Our  regiment,  and  the  other  four 

Which  Terzky  leads  —  the  bravest  corps 

Throughout  the  camp,  are  the  General's  own, 

And  have  been  trained  to  the  trade  by  himself  alone 

The  officers  hold  their  command  of  him, 

And  are  all  his  own,  or  for  life  or  limb. 


WALLENSTELN'S  CAMP.  117 

SCENE  III. 

Jfintw  Croat  with  a  necklace.  Sharpshooter  following  him. 
The  above. 

SHARPSHOOTEE. 

Croat,  where  stole  you  that  necklace,  say  ? 
Get  rid  of  it  man  —  for  thee  'tis  unmeet : 
Come,  take  these  pistols  in  change,  I  pray. 

CROAT. 
Nay,  nay,  Master  Shooter,  you're  trying  to  cheat. 

SHARPSHOOTER. 

Then  I'll  give  you  this  fine  blue  cap  as  well, 
A  lottery  prize  which  just  I've  won : 
Look  at  the  cut  of  it  —  quite  the  swell ! 

CROAT  (twirling  the  Necklace  in  the  Sun). 
But  this  is  of  pearls  and  of  garnets  bright, 
See,  how  it  plays  in"  the  sunny  light ! 

SHARPSHOOTER  (taking  the  Necklace}. 
Well,  I'll  give  you  to  boot,  my  own  canteen  — 
I'm  in  love  with  this  bauble's  beautiful  sheen. 

[Looks  at  it. 

TRUMPETER. 

See,  now !  —  how  cleanly  the  Croat  is  done : 
Snacks !  Master  Shooter,  and  mum's  the  word. 

CROAT  (having  put  on  the  cap). 
I  think  your  cap  is  a  smartish  one. 

SHARPSHOOTER  (winking  to  the  Trumpeter). 
Tis  a  regular  swop,  as  these  gents  have  heard. 

SCENE  IV. 
The  above.     An  Artilleryman. 

ARTILLERYMAN  (to  the  Sergeant). 
How  is  this  I  pray,  brother  carabineer  ? 
Shall  we  longer  stay  here,  our  fingers  warming, 
While  the  foe  in  the  field  around  is  swarming? 


118  WALLENSTELN'S  CAMP. 

SERGEANT. 

Art  thou,  indeed,  iu  such  hasty  fret? 

Why  the  roads,  as  I  think,  are  scarce  passable  yet. 

ARTILLERYMAN. 

For  me  they  are  not  —  I'm  snug  enough  here  — 

But  a  courier's  come,  our  wits  to  waken 

With  the  precious  news  that  Ratisbon's  taken. 

TRUMPETER. 

Ha  !  then  we  soon  shall  have  work  in  hand. 

SERGEANT. 

Indeed  !  to  protect  the  Bavarian's  land, 
Who  hates  the  duke,  as  we  understand, 
We  won't  put  ourselves  in  a  violent  sweat. 

ARTILLERYMAN. 

Heyday !  —  you'll  find  you're  a  wiseacre  yet. 

SCENE  V. 

The  above — Two    Yagers.      Afterwards  Sutler-woman, 
Soldier-boy,  Schoolmaster,    Servant-girl. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

See !  see ! 
Here  meet  we  a  jovial  company! 

TRUMPETER. 

Who  can  these  greencoats  be,  I  wonder, 
That  strut  so  gay  and  sprucely  yonder ! 

SERGEANT. 

They're  the  Yagers  of  Hoik  —  and  the  lace  they  wear, 
I'll  be  sworn,  was  ne'er  purchased  at  Leipzig  fair. 

SUTLER-WOMAX  (bringing  wine). 
Welcome,  good  sirs  ! 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Zounds,  how  now? 
Gustel  of  Blase witz  here,  I  vow  ! 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  119 

SUTLER- WOMAN. 

The  same  in  sooth  —  and  you  I  know, 

Are  the  lanky  Peter  of  Itzeho : 

Who  at  Gltickstadt  once,  in  revelling  night, 

With  the  wags  of  our  regiment,  put  to  flight 

All  his  father's  shiners  —  then  crowned  the  fun  — 

FIRST  YAGER. 

By  changing  his  pen  for  a  rifle-gun. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

We're  old  acquaintance,  then,  'tis  clear. 

FIRST  YAGER. 

And  to  think  we  should  meet  in  Bohemia  here  ! 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Oh,  here  to-day  —  to-morrow  yonder  — 
As  the  rude  war-broom,  in  restless  trace, 
Scatters  and  sweeps  us  from  place  to  place. 
Meanwhile  I've  been  doomed  far  round  to  wander. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

So  one  would  think,  by  the  look  of  your  face. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Up  the  country  I've  rambled  to  Temsewar, 
Whither  I  went  with  the  baggage-car, 
When  Mansfeld  before  us  we  chased  away ; 
With  the  duke  near  Stralsund  next  we  lay, 
Where  trade  went  all  to  pot,  I  may  say. 
I  jogged  with  the  succors  to  Mantua ; 
And  back  again  came,  under  Feria : 
Then,  joining  a  Spanish  regiment, 
I  took  a  short  cut  across  to  Ghent ; 
And  now  to  Bohemia  I'm  come  to  get 
Old  scores  paid  off,  that  are  standing  yet, 
If  a  helping  hand  by  the  duke  be  lent  — 
And  yonder  you  see  my  sutler's  tent. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

Well,  all  things  seem  in  a  flourishing  way, 

But  what  have  you  done  with  the  Scotchman,  say, 

Who  once  in  the  camp  was  your  constant  flame  ? 


120  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

A  villain,  who  tricked  me  clean,  that  same 
He  bolted,  and  took  to  himself  whate'er 
I'd  managed  to  scrape  together,  or  spare, 
Leaving  me  naught  but  the  urchin  there. 

SOLDIER-BOY  (springing  forward). 
Mother,  is  it  my  papa  you  name  ? 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Well,  the  emperor  now  must  father  this  elf, 
For  the  army  must  ever  recruit  itself. 

SCHOOLMASTER. 

Forth  to  the  school,  ye  rogue  —  d'ye  hear  ? 

FIRST    YAGER. 

He,  too,  of  a  narrow  room  has  fear. 

SERVANT  GIRL  (entering). 
Aunt,  they'll  be  off. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

I  come  apace. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

What  gypsy  is  that  with  the  roguish  face? 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

My  sister's  child  from  the  south,  is  she. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Ay,  ay,  a  sweet  little  niece  —  I  see. 

SECOND  YAGER  (holding  the  girl). 
Softly,  my  pretty  one !  stay  with  me. 

GIRL. 
The  customers  wait,  sir,  and  I  must  go. 

[Disengages  herself,  and  exit. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

That  maiden's  a  dainty  morsel,  I  trow  ! 
And  her  aunt  —  by  heaven  !  I  mind  me  well, 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  121 

When  the  best  of  the  regiment  loved  her  so, 
To  blows  for  her  beautiful  face  they  fell. 
What  different  folks  one's  doomed  to  know ! 
How  time  glows  off  with  a  ceasless  flow  ! 
And  what  sights  as  yet  we  may  live  to  see  1 

(  To  the  Sergeant  and  Trumpeter.) 
Your  health,  good  sirs,  may  we  be  free, 
A  seat  beside  you  here  to  take  ? 


SCENE  VI. 
The  Yagers,  Sergeant,  and  Trumpeter. 

SERGEANT. 

We  thank  ye  —  and  room  will  gladly  make. 
To  Bohemia  welcome. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Snug  enough  here ! 
In  the  land  of  the  foe  our  quarters  were  queer. 

TRUMPETER. 

You  haven't  the  look  on't  —  you're  spruce  to  view, 

SERGEANT. 

Ay,  faith,  on  the  Saal,  and  in  Meissen,  too, 
Your  praises  are  heard  from  the  lips  of  few. 

SECOND  YAGER. 

Tush,  man  !  why,  what  the  plague  d'ye  mean  ? 
The  Croat  had  swept  the  fields  so  clean, 
There  was  little  or  nothing  for  us  to  glean. 

TRUMPETER. 

Yet  your  pointed  collar  is  clean  and  sightly, 
And,  then,  your  hose  that  sit  so  tightly ! 
Your  linen  so  fine,  with  the  hat  and  feather, 
Make  a  show  of  smartness  altogether  ! 
(To  Sergeant.} 

That  fortune  should  upon  younkers  shine  — 
While  nothing  in  your  way  comes,  or  mine. 


122  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SERGEANT. 

But  then  we're  the  Friedlander's  regiment 
And,  thus,  may  honor  and  homage  claim. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

For  us,  now,  that's  no  great  compliment, 
We,  also,  bear  the  Friedlander's  name. 

SERGEANT. 

True  —  you  form  part  of  the  general  mass. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

And  you,  I  suppose,  are  a  separate  class ! 
The  difference  lies  in  the  coats  we  wear, 
And  I  have  no  wish  to  change  with  you  there ! 

SERGEANT. 

Sir  Yager,  I  can't  but  with  pity  melt, 

When  I  think  how  much  among  boors  you've  dwelt. 

The  clever  knack  and  the  proper  tone, 

Are  caught  by  the  general's  side  alone. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Then  the  lesson  is  wof ully  thrown  away,  — 
How  he  hawks  and  spits,  indeed,  I  may  say 
You've  copied  and  caught  in  the  cleverest  way ; 
But  his  spirit,  his  genius  —  oh,  these  I  ween, 
On  your  guard  parade  are  but  seldom  seen. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Why,  zounds  !  ask  for  us  wherever  you  will, 
Friedland's  wild  hunt  is  our  title  still ! 
Never  shaming  the  name,  all  undaunted  we  go 
Alike  through  the  field  of  a  friend,  or  a  foe ; 
Through  the  rising  stalk,  or  the  yellow  corn, 
Well  know  they  the  blast  of  Hoik's  Yager  horn. 
In  the  flash  of  an  eye,  we  are  far  or  near, 
Swift  as  the  deluge,  or  there  or  here  — 
As  at  midnight  dark,  when  the  flames  outbreak 
In  the  silent  dwelling  where  none  awake; 
Vain  is  the  hope  in  weapons  or  flight, 
Nor  order  nor  discipline  thwart  its  might. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  123 

Then  struggles  the  maid  in  our  sinewy  arms, 
But  war  hath  no  pity,  and  scorns  alarms. 
Go,  ask  —  I  speak  not  with  boastful  tongue  — 
In  Bareuth,  Westphalia,  Voigtland,  where'er 
Our  troops  have  traversed  —  go,  ask  them  there  — 
Children  and  children's  children  long, 
When  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  are  o'er, 
Of  Hoik  will  tell  and  his  Yager  corps. 

SERGEANT. 

Why,  hark  !     Must  a  soldier  then  be  made 
By  driving  this  riotous,  roaring  trade  ! 
'Tis  drilling  that  makes  him,  skill  and  sense  — 
Perception  —  thought  —  intelligence. 

FIRST  YAGER. 

'Tis  liberty  makes  him  !     Here's  a  fuss  ! 
That  I  should  such  twaddle  as  this  discuss. 
Was  it  for  this  that  I  left  the  school  ? 
That  the  scribbling  desk,  and  the  slavish  rule, 
And  the  narrow  walls,  that  our  spirits  cramp, 
Should  be  met  with  again  in  the  midst  of  the  camp  ? 
No  !  Idle  and  heedless,  I'll  take  my  way, 
Hunting  for  novelty  every  day ; 
Trust  to  the  moment  with  dauntless  mind, 
And  give  not  a  glance  or  before  or  behind. 
For  this  to  the  emperor  I  sold  my  hide, 
That  no  other  care  I  might  have  to  bide. 
Through  the  foe's  fierce  firing  bid  me  ride, 
Through  fathomless  Rhine,  in  his  roaring  flow, 
Where  ev'ry  third  man  to  the  devil  may  go, 
At  no  bar  will  you  find  me  boggling  there ; 
But,  farther  than  this,  'tis  my  special  prayer, 
That  I  may  not  be  bothered  with  aught  like  care 

SERGEANT. 

If  this  be  your  wish,  you  needn't  lack  it, 
'Tis  granted  to  all  with  the  soldier's  jacket. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

What  a  fuss  and  a  bother,  forsooth,  was  made 
By  that  man-tormentor,  Gustavus,  the  Swede, 


124  WAJLLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

Whose  camp  was  a  church,  where  prayers  were  said 
At  morning  reveille  and  evening  tattoo; 
And,  whenever  it  chanced  that  we  frisky  grew, 
A  sermon  himself  from  the  saddle  he'd  read. 

SERGEANT. 

Ay,  that  was  a  man  with  the  fear  of  God. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Girls  he  detested  ;  and  what's  rather  odd, 

If  caught  with  a  wench  you  in  wedlock  were  tacked, 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  so  off  I  packed. 

SERGEANT. 

Their  discipline  now  has  a  trifle  slacked. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

Well,  next  to  the  League  I  rode  over ;  their  men 
Were  mustering  in  haste  against  Magdeburg  then. 
Ha  !  that  was  another  guess  sort  of  a  thing ! 
In  frolic  and  fun  we'd  a  glorious  swing ; 
With  gaming,  and  drinking,  and  girls  at  call, 
I'faith,  sirs,  our  sport  was  by  no  means  small. 
For  Tilly  knew  how  to  command,  that's  plain; 
He  held  himself  in  but  gave  us  the  rein  ; 
And,  long  as  he  hadn't  the  bother  of  paying, 
"  Live  and  let  live !  "  was  the  general's  saying. 
But  fortune  soon  gave  him  the  slip  ;  and  ne'er 
Since  the  day  of  that  villanous  Leipzig  affair 
Would  aught  go  aright.     'Twas  of  little  avail 
That  we  tried,  for  our  plans  were  sure  to  fail. 
If  now  we  drew  nigh  and  rapped  at  the  door, 
No  greeting  awaited,  'twas  opened  no  more ; 
From  place  to  place  we  went  sneaking  about, 
And  found  that  their  stock  of  respect  was  out; 
Then  touched  I  the  Saxon  bounty,  and  thought 
Their  service  with  fortune  must  needs  be  fraught. 

SERGEANT. 

You  joined  them  then  just  in  the  nick  to  share 
Bohemia's  plunder? 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  125 

FIRST    YAGER. 

I'd  small  luck  there. 
Strict  discipline  sternly  ruled  the  day, 
Nor  dared  we  a  foernan's  force  display ; 
They  set  us  to  guard  the  imperial  forts, 
And  plagued  us  all  with  the  farce  of  the  courts. 
War  they  waged  as  a  jest  'twere  thought  — 
And  but  half  a  heart  to  the  business  brought, 
They  would  break  with  none ;  and  thus  'twas  plain 
Small  honor  among  them  could  a  soldier  gain. 
So  heartily  sick  in  the  end  grew  I 
That  my  rnind  was  the  desk  again  to  try; 
When  suddenly,  rattling  near  and  far, 
The  Friedlander's  drum  was  heard  to  war. 

SERGEANT. 

And  how  long  here  may  you  mean  to  stay  ? 

FIRST   YAGER. 

You  jest,  man.     So  long  as  he  bears  the  sway, 
By  my  soul!  not  a  thought  of  change  have  I; 
Where  better  than  here  could  the  soldier  lie  ? 
Here  the  true  fashion  of  war  is  found, 
And  the  cut  of  power's  on  all  things  round ; 
While  the  spirit  whereby  the  movement's  given 
Mightily  stirs,  like  the  winds  of  heaven, 
The  meanest  trooper  in  all  the  throng. 
With  a  hearty  step  shall  I  tramp  along 
On  a  burgher's  neck  as  undaunted  tread 
As  our  general  does  on  the  prince's  head. 
As  'twas  in  the  times  of  old  'tis  now, 
The  sword  is  the  sceptre,  and  all  must  bow. 
One  crime  alone  can  I  understand, 
And  that's  to  oppose  the  word  of  command. 
What's  not  forbidden  to  do  make  bold, 
And  none  will  ask  you  what  creed  you  hold. 
Of  just  two  things  in  this  world  I  wot, 
What  belongs  to  the  army  and  what  does  not, 
To  the  banner  alone  is  my  service  brought. 


126  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SERGEANT. 

Thus,  Yager,  I  like  thee  —  thou  speakest,  I  vow, 
With  the  tone  of  a  Friedland  trooper  now. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

'Tis  not  as  an  office  he  holds  command, 
Or  a  power  received  from  the  emperor's  hand ; 
For  the  emperor's  service  what  should  he  care, 
What  better  for  him  does  the  emperor  fare? 
With  the  mighty  power  he  wields  at  will, 
Has  ever  he  sheltered  the  land  from  ill  ? 
No;  a  soldier-kingdom  he  seeks  to  raise, 
And  for  this  would  set  the  world  in  a  blaze, 
.   Daring  to  risk  and  to  compass  all 

TRUMPETER. 

Hush  —  who  shall  such  words  as  these  let  fall? 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Whatever  I  think  may  be  said  by  me, 
For  the  general  tells  us  the  word  is  free. 

SERGEANT. 

True  —  that  he  said  so  I  fully  agree, 
I  was  standing  by.     "  The  word  is  free  — 
The  deed  is  dumb  —  obedience  blind !  " 
His  very  words  I  can  call  to  mind. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

I  know  not  if  these  were  his  words  or  no, 
But  he  said  the  thing,  and  'tis  even  so. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Victory  ne'er  will  his  flag  forsake, 

Though  she's  apt  from  others  a  turn  to  take  : 

Old  Tilly  outlived  his  fame's  decline, 

But  under  the  banner  of  Wallenstein, 

There  am  I  certain  that  victory'  s  mine  I 

Fortune  is  spell-bound  to  him,  and  must  yield ; 

Whoe'er  under  Friedland  shall  take  the  field 

Is  sure  of  a  supernatural  shield  : 

For,  as  all  the  world  is  aware  full  well, 

The  duke  has  a  devil  in  hire  from  hell. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  127 

SERGEANT. 

In  truth  that  he's  charmed  is  past  a  doubt, 
For  we  know  how,  at  Ltitzen's  bloody  affair, 
Where  firing  was  thickest  he  still  was  there, 
As  coolly  as  might  be,  sirs,  riding  about. 
The  hat  on  his  head  was  shot  thro'  and  thro', 
In  coat  and  boots  the  bullets  that  flew 
Left  traces  full  clear  to  all  men's  view ; 
But  none  got  so  far  as  to  scratch  off  his  skin, 
For  the  ointment  of  hell  was  too  well  rubbed  in* 

FIRST    YAGER. 

What  wonders  so  strange  can  you  all  see  there  ? 
An  elk-skin  jacket  he  happens  to  wear, 
And  through  it  the  bullets  can  make  no  way. 

SERGEANT. 

'Tis  an  ointment  of  witches'  herbs,  I  say, 
Kneaded  and  cooked  by  unholy  spell. 

TRUMPETER. 

No  doubt  'tis  the  work  of  the  powers  of  hell. 

SERGEANT. 

That  he  reads  in  the  stars  we  also  hear, 
Where  the  future  he  sees  —  distant  or  near  — 
But  I  know  better  the  truth  of  the  case : 
A  little  gray  man,  at  the  dead  of  night, 
Through  bolted  doors  to  him  will  pace  — 
The  sentinels  oft  have  hailed  the  sight, 
And  something  great  was  sure  to  be  nigh, 
When  this  little  gray-coat  had  glided  by. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Ay,  ay,  he's  sold  himself  to  the  devil, 
Wherefore,  my  lads,  let's  feast  and  revel. 


128  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SCENE  VII. 
The  above  —  Recruit,  Citizen,  Dragoon. 

f  The  Recruit  advances  from  the  tent,  wearing  a  tin  cap  on 
his  head,  and  carrying  a  wine-flask.) 

RECRUIT. 

To  father  and  uncle  pray  make  my  bow, 
And  bid  'em  good-by  —  I'm  a  soldier  now. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

See,  yonder  they're  bringing  us  something  new, 

CITIZEN. 
Oh,  Franz,  remember,  this  day  you'll  rue. 

RECRUIT  (sings'). 
The  drum  and  the  fife, 

War's  rattling  throng, 
And  a  wandering  life 

The  world  along ! 
Swift  steed  —  and  a  hand 
To  curb  and  command  — 
With  a  blade  by  the  side, 
We're  off  far  and  wide. 
As  jolly  and  free, 
As  the  finch  in  its  glee, 
On  thicket  or  tree, 
Under  heaven's  wide  hollow  — 
Hurrah  !  for  the  Friedlander's  banner  I'll  follow! 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Foregad !  a  jolly  companion,  though. 

[  They  salute  him. 
CITIZEN. 
He  conies  of  good  kin ;  now  pray  let  him  go. 

FIRST     YAGER. 

And  we  wern't  found  in  the  streets  you  must  know. 

CITIZEN. 

I  tell  you  his  wealth  is  a  plentiful  stock  ; 
Just  feel  the  fine  stuff  that  he  wears  for  a  frock. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  129 

TRUMPETER. 

The  emperor's  coat  is  the  best  he  can  wear. 

CITIZEN. 
To  a  cap  manufactory  he  is  the  heir. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

The  will  of  a  man  is  his  fortune  alone. 

CITIZEN. 

His  grandmother's  shop  will  soon  be  his  own* 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Pish !  traffic  in  matches  !  who  would  do 't  ? 

CITIZEN. 

A  wine-shop  his  grandfather  leaves,  to  boot, 
A  cellar  with  twenty  casks  of  wine. 

TRUMPETER. 

These  with  his  comrades  he'll  surely  share. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Hark  ye,  lad  —  be  a  camp-brother  of  mine. 

CITIZEN. 
A  bride  he  leaves  sitting,  in  tears,  apart. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Good  —  that  now's  a  proof  of  an  iron  heart. 

CITIZEN. 
His  grandmother's  sure  to  die  with  sorrow. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

The  better — for  then  he'll  inherit  to-morrow. 

SERGEANT  (advances  gravely,  and  lays  his  hand  on  the 

Recruifs  tin  cap). 

The  matter  no  doubt  you  have  duly  weighed, 
And  here  a  new  man  of  yourself  have  made ; 
With  hanger  and  helm,  sir,  you  now  belong 
To  a  nobler  and  more  distinguished  throng. 
Thus,  a  loftier  spirit  'twere  well  to  uphold  — 


130  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

And,  specially,  never  be  sparing  of  gold. 

SERGEANT. 

Iii  Fortune's  ship,  with  an  onward  gale, 
My  friend,  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  sail. 
The  earth-ball  is  open  before  you  —  yet  there 
Naught's  to  be  gained,  but  by  those  who  dare. 
Stupid  and  sluggish   your  citizen's  found, 
Like  a  dyer's  dull  jade,  in  his  ceaseless  round, 
While  the  soldier  can  be  whatever  he  will, 
For  war  o'er  the  earth  is  the  watchword  still. 
Just  look  now  at  me,  and  the  coat  I  wear, 
You  see  that  the  emperor's  baton  I  bear  — 
And  all  good  government,  over  the  earth, 
You  must  know  from  the  baton  alone  has  birth  ; 
For  the  sceptre  that's  swayed  by  the  kingly  hand 
Is  naught  but  a  baton,  we  understand. 
And  he  who  has  corporal's  rank  obtained, 
Stands  on  the  ladder  where  all's  to  be  gained, 
And  you,  like  another,  may  mount  to  that  height- 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Provided  you  can  but  read  and  write. 

SERGEANT. 

Now,  hark  to  an  instance  of  this  from  me, 
And  one,  which  I've  lived  myself  to  see  : 
There's  Butler,  the  chief  of  dragoons,  why  he, 
Whose  rank  was  not  higher  a  whit  than  mine, 
Some  thirty  years  since,  at  Cologne  on  Rhine, 
Is  a  major-general  now  — because 
He  put  himself  forward  and  gained  applause; 
Filling  the  world  with  his  martial  fame, 
While  slept  my  merits  without  a  name. 
And  even  the  Friedlander's  self —  I've  heard  — 
Our  general  and  all-commanding  lord, 
Who  now  can  do  what  he  will  at  a  word, 
Had  at  first  but  a  private  squire's  degree; 
In  the  goddess  of  war  yet  trusting  free, 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  131 

He  reared  the  greatness  which  now  you  see, 
And,  after  the  emperor,  next  is  he. 
Who  knows  what  more  he  may  mean  or  get? 
(Slyly.)  For  all-day's  evening  isn't  come  yet. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

He  was  little  at  first,  though  now  so  great  — 

For  at  Altorf,  in  student's  gown  he  played 

By  your  leave,  the  part  of  a  roaring  blade, 

And  rattled  away  at  a  queerish  rate. 

His  fag  he  had  well  nigh  killed  by  a  blow, 

And  their  Nur'mburg  worships  swore  he  should  go 

To  jail  for  his  pains  —  if  he  liked  it  or  no. 

'Twas  a  new-built  nest  to  be  christened  by  him 

Who  first  should  be  lodged.  Well,  what  was  his  whim  ? 

Why,  he  sent  his  dog  forward  to  lead  the  way, 

And  they  call  the  jail  from  the  dog  to  this  day. 

That  was  the  game  a  brave  fellow  should  play, 

And  of  all  the  great  deeds  of  the  general,  none 

E'er  tickled  my  fancy,  like  this  one. 

[During  this  speech,  the  second  Yager  has  begun 
toying  with  the  girl  who  has  been  in  waiting.'] 

DRAGOON  (stepping  between  them). 
Comrade  —  give  over  this  sport,  I  pray. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Why,  who  the  devil  shall  say  me  nay ! 

DRAGOON. 

I've  only  to  tell  you  the  girl's  my  own. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Such  a  morsel  as  this,  for  himself  alone  !  — 
Dragoon,  why  say,  art  thou  crazy  grown  ? 

SECOND     YAGER. 

In  the  camp  to  be  keeping  a  wench  for  one  ! 
No  !  the  light  of  a  pretty  girl's  face  must  fall, 
Like  the  beams  of  the  sun,  to  gladden  us  all. 

(Kisses  her.) 


132  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

DRAGOON  (tears  her  away). 
I  tell  you  again,  that  it  shan't  be  done. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

The  pipers  are  coming,  lads  !  now  for  fun ! 
SECOND  YAGER  (to  Dragoon). 
I  shan't  be  far  off,  should  you  look  for  me. 

SERGEANT. 

Peace,  my  good  fellows !  —  a  kiss  goes  free. 

SCENE  VIII. 

Enter  Miners,  and  play  a  waltz  —  at  first  slowly.,  and 
afterwards  quicker.  The  first  Yager  dances  with  the 
girl,  the  Sutler-woman  with  the  recruit.  The  girl  springs 
away,  and  the  Yager,  pursuing  her,  seizes  hold  of  a 
Capuchin  Friar  just  entering. 
CAPUCHIN. 

Hurrah  !  halloo !  tol,  lol,  de  rol,  le  ! 

The  fun's  at  its  height !  I'll  not  be  away ! 

Is't  an  army  of  Christians  that  join  in  such  works? 

Or  are  we  all  turned  Anabaptists  and  Turks  ? 

Is  the  Sabbath  a  day  for  this  sport  in  the  land, 

As  though  the  great  God  had  the  gout  in  his  hand, 

And  thus  couldn't  smite  in  the  midst  of  your  band  ? 

Say,  is  this  a  time  for  your  revelling  shouts, 

For  your  ban que tings,  feasts,  and  holiday  bouts  ? 

Quid  hie  statis  otiosif  declare 

Why,  folding  your  arms,  stand  ye  lazily  there? 

While  the  furies  of  war  on  the  Danube  now  fare 

And  Bavaria's  bulwark  is  lying  full  low, 

And  Ratisbon's  fast  in  the  clutch  of  the  foe. 

Yet,  the  army  lies  here  in  Bohemia  still, 

And  caring  for  naught,  so  their  paunches  they  fill! 

Bottles  far  rather  than  battles  you'll  get, 

And  your  bills  than  your  broad-swords  more  readily  wet; 

With  the  wenches,  I  ween,  is  your  dearest  concern, 

And  you'd  rather  roast  oxen  than  Oxenstiern. 

In  sackcloth  and  ashes  while  Christendom's  grieving, 

No  thought  has  the  soldier  his  <mzzle  of  leaving- 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  133 

'Tis  a  time  of  misery,  groaiis,  and  tears ! 

Portentous  the  face  of  the  heavens  appears ! 

And  forth  from  the  clouds  behold  blood-red, 

The  Lord's  war-mantle  is  downward  spread  — 

While  the  comet  is  thrust  as  a  threatening  rod, 

From  the  window  of  heaven  by  the  hand  of  God. 

The  world  is  but  one  vast  house  of  woe, 

The  ark  of  the  church  stems  a  bloody  flow, 

The  Holy  Empire  —  God  help  the  same ! 

Has  wretchedly  sunk  to  a  hollow  name. 

The  Rhine's  gay  stream  has  a  gory  gleam, 

The  cloister's  nests  are  robbed  by  roysters ; 

The  church-lands  now  are  changed  to  lurch-lands ; 

Abbacies,  and  all  other  holy  foundations 

Now  are  but  robber-sees  — rogues'  habitations. 

And  thus  is  each  once-blest  German  state, 

Deep  sunk  in  the  gloom  of  the  desolate ! 

Whence  comes  all  this?    Oh,  that  will  I  tell  — 

It  comes  of  your  doings,  of  sin,  and  of  hell ; 

Of  the  horrible,  heathenish  lives  ye  lead, 

Soldiers  and  officers,  all  of  a  breed. 

For  sin  is  the  magnet,  on  every  hand, 

That  draws  your  steel  throughout  the  land  I 

As  the  onion  causes  the  tear  to  flow, 

So  vice  must  ever  be  followed  by  woe  — 

The  W  duly  succeeds  the  V, 

This  is  the  order  of  A,  B,  C. 

ITbi  erit  victorice  spes, 

fit  offenditur  Deus  ?  which  says, 

How,  pray  ye,  shall  victory  e'er  come  to  pass, 

If  thus  you  play  truant  from  sermon  and  mass, 

And  do  nothing  but  lazily  loll  o'er  the  glass  ? 

The  woman,  we're  told  in  the  Testament, 

Found  the  penny  in  search  whereof  she  went. 

Saul  met  with  his  father's  asses  again, 

And  Joseph  his  precious  fraternal  train, 

But  he,  who  'mong  soldiers  shall  hope  to  see 

God's  fear,  or  shame,  or  discipline —  he 

From  his  toil,  beyond  doubt,  will  baffled  return, 

Though  a  hundred  lamps  in  the  search  he  burn. 

To  the  wilderness  preacher,  th'  Evangelist  says> 


134  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

The  soldiers,  too,  thronged  to  repent  of  their  ways, 

And  had  themselves  christened  in  former  days. 

Quid  faciemus  nos  f  they  said  : 

Toward  Abraham's  bosom  what  path  must  we  tread  ? 

Et  ait  illis,  and,  said  he, 

Neminem  concutiatis  / 

From  bother  and  wrongs  leave  your  neighbors  free. 

Neqne  calumniamfaciatis  ; 

And  deal  nor  in  slander  nor  lies,  d'ye  see? 

Contenti  estate  —  content  ye,  pray, 

Stipendiis  vestris  —  with  your  pay  — 

And  curse  forever  each  evil  way. 

There  is  a  command  — thou  shalt  not  utter 

The  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain  ; 

But,  where  is  it  men  most  blasphemies  mutter 

Why  here,  in  Duke  Friedland's  headquarters,  'tis  plain 

If  for  every  thunder,  and  every  blast, 

Which  blazing  ye  from  your  tongue-points  cast, 

The  bells  were  but  rung,  in  the  country  round, 

Not  a  bellman,  I  ween,  would  there  soon  be  found ; 

And  if  for  each  and  every  unholy  prayer 

Which  to  vent  from  your  jabbering  jaws  you  dare, 

From  your  noddles  were  plucked  but  the  smallest  hair, 

Ev'ry  crop  would  be  smoothed  ere  the  sun  went  down, 

Though  at  morn  'twere  as  bushy  as  Absalom's  crown. 

Now,  Joshua,  methinks,  was  a  soldier  as  well  — 

By  the  arm  of  King  David  the  Philistine  fell ; 

But  where  do  we  find  it  written,  I  pray, 

That  they  ever  blasphemed  in  this  villanous  way? 

One  would  think  ye  need  stretch  your  jaws  no  more, 

To  cry,  "  God  help  us  !  "  than  "  Zounds  !  "  to  roar. 

But,  by  the  liquor  that's  poured  in  the  cask,  we  know 

With  what  it  will  bubble  and  overflow. 

Again,  it  is  written  —  thou  shalt  not  steal, 

And  tliis  you  follow,  i' faith  !  to  the  letter, 

For  open-faced  robbery  suits  ye  better. 

The  gripe  of  your  vulture  claws  you  fix 

On  all — and  your  wiles  and  rascally  tricks 

Make  the  gold  unhid  in  our  coffers  now, 

And  the  calf  unsafe  while  yet  in  the  cow  — 

Ye  take  both  the  egg  and  the  hen,  I  vow. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  135 

Contenti  estate  —  the  preacher  said  ; 

Which  means  —  be  content  with  your  army  bread. 

But  how  should  the  slaves  not  from  duty  swerve? 

The  mischief  begins  with  the  lord  they  serve, 

Just  like  the  members  so  is  the  head. 

I  should  like  to  know  who  can  tell  me  his  creed. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

Sir  priest,  'gainst  oiarselves  rail  on  as  you  will  — 
Of  the  general  we  warn  you  to  breathe  no  ill. 

CAPUCHIN. 

Ne  custodias  gregem  meam  ! 
An  Ahab  is  he,  and  a  Jerobeam, 
Who  the  people  from  faith's  unerring  way, 
To  the  worship  of  idols  would  turn  astray, 

TRUMPETER  and  RECRUIT. 

Let  us  not  hear  that  again,  we  pray. 

CAPUCHIN. 

Such  a  Bramarbas,  whose  iron  tooth 
Would  seize  all  the  strongholds  of  earth  forsooth ! 
Did  he  not  boast,  with  ungodly  tongue, 
That  Stralsund  must  needs  to  his  grasp  be  wrung, 
Though  to  heaven  itself  with  a  chain  'twere  strung? 

TRUMPETER. 

Will  none  put  a  stop  to  his  slanderous  bawl  ? 

CAPUCHIN. 

A  wizard  he  is  !  —  and  a  sorcerer  Saul !  — 
Holofernes !  —  a  Jehu  !  —  denying,  we  know, 
Like  St.  Peter,  his  Master  and  Lord  below  ; 
And  Lence  must  he  quail  when  the  cock  doth  crow  — 

BOTH   YAGERS. 

Now,  parson,  prepare ;  for  thy  doom  is  nigh. 

CAPUCHIN. 
A  fox  more  cunning  than  Herod,  I  trow  — 

TRUMPETER  and  both  YAGERS  (pressing  against  him) . 
Silence,  again,  —  if  thou  wouldst  not  die ! 


136  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

CROATS  (interfering). 

Stick  to  it,  father ;  we'll  shield  you,  ne'er  fear ; 
The  close  of  your  preachment  now  let's  hear. 

CAPUCHIN  (still  louder). 

A  Nebuchadnezzar  in  towering  pride  ! 

And  a  vile  and  heretic  sinner  beside ! 

He  calls  himself  rightly  the  stone  of  a  wall; 

For,  faith  !  he's  a  stumbling-stone  to  us  all. 

And  ne'er  can  the  emperor  have  peace  indeed, 

Till  of  Friedland  himself  the  land  is  freed. 

[During  the  last  passage,  which  he  pronounces  in 
an  elevated  voice,  he  has  been  gradually  retreat* 
ing,  the  Croats  keeping  the  other  soldiers  off. 

SCENE  IX. 
The  above,  without  the  Capuchin. 

FIRST  YAGER  (to  the  Sergeant) . 
But,  tell  us,  what  meant  he  about  chanticleer ; 
Whose  crowing  the  general  dares  not  hear? 
No  doubt  it  was  uttered  in  spite  and  scorn. 

SERGEANT. 

Listen  —  'tis  not  so  untrue  as  it  appears ; 
For  Friedland  was  rather  mysteriously  born, 
And  is  'specially  troubled  with  ticklish  ears  ; 
He  can  never  suffer  the  mew  of  a  cat ; 
And  when  the  cock  crows  he  starts  thereat. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

He's  one  and  the  same  with  the  lion  in  that. 

SERGEANT. 

Mouse-still  must  all  around  him  creep, 
Strict  watch  in  this  the  sentinels  keep, 
For  he  ponders  on  matters  most  grave  and  deep. 

[  Voices  in  the  tent.     A  tumult. 
Seize  the  rascal !  lay  on  !  lay  on  ! 
PEASANT'S  VOICE. 
Help !  —  mercy !  —  help  ! 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  137 

OTHERS. 

Peace  !  peace!  begone ! 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Deuce  take  me,  but  yonder  the  swords  are  out! 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Then  I  mast  be  off,  and  see  what  'tis  about. 

[  Yagers  enter  the  tent. 

SUTLER-WOMAN  (comes  forward). 
A  scandalous  villain  !  —  a  scurvy  thief ! 

TRUMPETER. 

Good  hostess,  the  cause  of  this  clamorous  grief  ? 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

A  cut-purse !  a  scoundrel !  the  villain  I  call. 
That  the  like  in  my  tent  should  ever  befall ! 
I'm  disgraced  and  undone  with  the  officers  all. 

SERGEANT. 

Well,  coz,  what  is  it  ? 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Why,  what  should  it  be  ? 

But  a  peasant  they've  taken  just  now  with  me  — 
A  rogue  with  false  dice,  to  favor  his  play. 

TRUMPETER. 

See  !  they're  bringing  the  boor  and  his  son  this  way. 

SCENE  X. 
Soldiers  dragging  in  the  peasant,  bound. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

He  must  hang ! 

SHARPSHOOTERS  and  DRAGOONS. 

To  the  provost,  come  on ! 

SERGEANT. 

Tis  the  latest  order  that  forth  has  gone. 


138  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SUTLEB-WOMAN. 
In  an  hour  I  hope  to  behold  him  swinging! 

SERGEANT. 

Bad  work  bad  wages  will  needs  be  bringing. 

FIRST  ARQUEBUSIER  (to  the  others). 
This  comes  of  their  desperation.     We 
First  ruin  them  out  and  out,  d'ye  see ; 
Which  tempts  them  to  steal,  as  it  seems  to  me. 

TRUMPETER. 

How  now  !  the  rascal's  cause  would  you  plead  ? 
The  cur !  the  devil  is  in  you  indeed ! 

FIRST  ARQUEBUSIER. 

The  boor  is  a  man  —  as  a  body  may  say. 
FIRST  YAGER  (to  the  Trumpeter"). 
Let  'em  go  !  they're  of  Tiefenbach's  corps,  the  railers, 
A  glorious  train  of  glovers  and  tailors ! 
At  Brieg,  in  garrison,  long  they  lay ; 
What  should  they  know  about  camps,  I  pray  ? 

SCENE  XI. 
The  above.  —  Cuirassiers. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Peace !  what's  amiss  with  the  boor,  may  I  crave  ? 

FIRST    SHARPSHOOTER. 

He  has  cheated  at  play,  the  cozening  knave ! 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

But  say,  has  he  cheated  you,  man,  of  aught  ? 

FIRST    SHARPHOOTER. 

Just  cleaned  me  out  —  and  not  left  me  a  groat. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

And  can  you,  who've  the  rank  of  a  Friedland  man, 

So  shamefully  cast  yourself  away, 

As  to  try  your  luck  with  the  boor  at  play  ? 

Let  him  run  off,  so  that  run  he  can. 

[  The  peasant  escapes,  the  others  throng  together. 


WALLENSTELN'S  CAMP.  139 

FIRST   ARQUEBUSIER. 

He  makes  short  work  —  is  of  resolute  mood  — 
And  that  with  such  fellows  as  these  is  good. 
Who  is  he  ?  not  of  Bohemia,  that's  clear. 

SUTLER-WOMAN-. 

He's  a  Walloon  —  and  respect,  I  trow, 
Is  due  to  the  Pappenheim  cuirassier ! 

FIRST  DRAGOON  (joining). 
Young  Piccolomini  leads  them  now, 
Whom  they  chose  as  colonel,  of  their  own  free  might, 
When  Pappenheim  fell  in  Ltitzen's  fight. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

Durst  they,  indeed,  presume  so  far  ? 

FIRST    DRAGOON. 

This  regiment  is  something  above  the  rest. 
It  has  ever  been  foremost  thro  tight  the  war, 
And  may  manage  its  laws,  as  it  pleases  best ; 
Besides,  'tis  by  Friedland  himself  caressed. 

FIRST  CUIRASSIER  (to  the  Second.) 
Is't  so  in  truth,  man  ?    Who  averred  it? 

SECOND     CUIRASSIER. 

From  the  lips  of  the  colonel  himself  I  heard  it. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

The  devil !  we're  not  their  dogs,  I  ween ! 

FIRST    YAGER. 

How  now,  what's  wrong  ?  You're  swollen  with  spleen ! 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Is  it  anything,  comrades,  may  us  concern  ? 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

'Tis  what  none  need  be  wondrous  glad  to  learn. 

The  Soldiers  press  round  him. 
To  the  Netherlands  they  would  lend,  us  now  — 
Cuirassiers,  Yagers,  and  Shooters  away, 
Eight  thousand  in  all  must  march,  they  say. 


140  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

What !  What !  again  the  old  wandering  way  — 
I  got  back  from  Flanders  but  yesterday  ! 

SECOND  CUIRASSIER  (to  the  Dragoons). 
You  of  Butler's  corps  must  tramp  with  the  rest. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

And  we,  the  Walloons,  must  doubtless  be  gone. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Why,  of  all  our  squadrons  these  are  the  best. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

To  march  where  that  Milanese  fellow  leads  on. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

The  infant  ?  that's  queer  enough  in  its  way. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

The  priest  —  then,  egad  !    there's  the  devil  to  pay. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Shall  we  then  leave  the  Friedlander's  train, 
Who  so  nobly  his  soldiers  doth  entertain  — 
And  drag  to  the  field  with  this  fellow  from  Spain! 
A  niggard  whom  we  in  our  souls  disdain  ! 
That'll  never  go  down  —  I'm  off,  I  swear. 

TRUMPETER. 

Why,  what  the  devil  should  we  do  there  ? 
We  sold  our  blood  to  the  emperor  —  ne'er 
For  this  Spanish  red  hat  a  drop  we'll  spare ! 

SECOND   YAGER. 

On  the  Friedlander's  word  and  credit  alone 
We  ranged  ourselves  in  the  trooper  line, 
And,  but  for  our  love  to  Wallenstein, 
Ferdinand  ne'er  had  our  service  known. 

FIRST    DRAGOON. 

Was  it  not  Friedland  that  formed  our  force? 
His  fortune  shall  still  be  the  star  of  our  course. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  141 


SERGEANT. 

Silence,  good  comrades,  to  me  give  ear  — 
Talking  does  little  to  help  us  here. 
Much  farther  in  this  I  can  see  than  you  all, 
And  a  trap  has  been  laid  in  which  we're  to  fall. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

List  to  the  order-book  !  hush  —  be  still  I 

SERGEANT. 

But  first,  Cousin  Gustel,  I  pray  thee  fill 

A  glass  of  Melneck,  as  my  stomach's  but  weak : 

When  I've  tossed  it  off,  my  mind  I'll  speak. 

SUTLER- WOMAN. 

Take  it,  good  sergeant.     I  quake  for  fear  — 
Think  you  that  mischief  is  hidden  here  ? 

SERGEANT. 

Look  ye,  my  friends,  'tis  fit  and  clear 
That  each  should  consider  what's  most  near. 
But  as  the  general  says,  say  I, 
One  should  always  the  whole  of  a  case  descry. 
We  call  ourselves  all  the  Friedlander's  troops ; 
The  burgher,  on  whom  we're  billeted,  stoops 
Our  wants  to  supply,  and  cooks  our  soups. 
His  ox,  or  his  horse,  the  peasant  must  chain 
To  our  baggage-car,  and  may  grumble  in  vain. 
Just  let  a  lance-corp'ral,  with  seven  good  men, 
Tow'rd  a  village  from  far  but  come  within  ken, 
You're  sure  he'll  be  prince  of  the  place,  and  may 
Cut  what  capers  he  will,  with  unquestioned  sway. 
Why,  zounds  !  lads,  they  heartily  hate  us  all  — 
And  would  rather  the  devil  should  give  them  a  call, 
Than  our  yellow  collars.     And  why  don't  they  fall 
On  us  fairly  at  once  and  get  rid  of  our  lumber? 
They're  more  than  our  match  in  point  of  number, 
And  carry  the  cudgel  as  we  do  the  sword. 
Why  can  we  laugh  them  to  scorn  ?    By  my  word 
Because  we  make  up  here  a  terrible  horde. 


142  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

FIRST  YAGER. 

Ay,  ay,  in  the  mass  lies  the  spell  of  our  might, 
And  the  Friedlander  judged  the  matter  aright, 
When,  some  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  he  brought 
The  emperor's  army  together.     They  thought 
Twelve  thousand  enough  for  the  general.     In  vain, 
Said  he,  such  a  force  I  can  never  maintain. 
Sixty  thousand  I'll  bring  ye  into  the  plain, 
And  they,  I'll  be  sworn,  won't  of  hunger  die, 
And  thus  were  we  Wallenstein's  men,  say  I. 

SERGEANT. 

For  example,  cut  one  of  my  fingers  off, 

This  little  one  here  from  my  right  hand  doff. 

Is  the  taking  my  finger  then  all  you've  done  ? 

No,  no,  to  the  devil  my  hand  is  gone ! 

'Tis  a  stump  —  no  more  —  and  use  has  none. 

The  eight  thousand  horse  they  wish  to  disband 

May  be  but  a  finger  of  our  army's  hand. 

But  when  they're  once  gone  may  we  understand 

We  are  but  one-fifth  the  less?     Oh,  no  — 

By  the  Lord,  the  whole  to  the  devil  will  go! 

All  terror,  respect,  and  awe  will  be  over, 

And  the  peasant  will  swell  his  crest  once  more ; 

And  the  Board  of  Vienna  will  order  us  where 

Our  troops  must  be  quartered  and  how  we  must  fare, 

As  of  old  in  the  days  of  their  beggarly  care. 

Yes,  and  how  long  it  will  be  who  can  say 

Ere  the  general  himself  they  may  take  away  ? 

For  they  don't  much  like  him  at  court  I  learn  ? 

And  then  it's  all  up  with  the  whole  concern ! 

For  who,  to  our  pay,  will  be  left  to  aid  us? 

And  see  that  they  keep  the  promise  they  made  us 

Who  has  the  energy  —  who  the  mind  — 

The  flashing  thought  —  and  the  fearless  hand  — 

Together  to  bring,  and  thus  fastly  bind 

The  fragments  that  form  our  close-knit  band. 

For  example,  dragoon  —  just  answer  us  now, 

From  which  of  the  countries  of  earth  art  thou  ? 

DRAGOON. 
From  distant  Erin  came  I  here. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  143 

SERGEANT  (to  the  two  Cuirassiers). 
You're  a  Walloon,  my  friend,  that's  clear, 
And  you,  an  Italian,  as  all  may  hear. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Who  I  may  be,  faith  !  I  never  could  say ; 
In  my  infant  years  they  stole  me  away. 

SERGEANT. 

And  you,  from  what  far  land  may  you  be  ? 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

I  come  from  Buchau  —  on  the  Feder  Sea. 

SERGEANT. 

Neighbor,  and  you  ? 

SECOND    ARQUEBUSIER. 

I  am  a  Swiss. 

SERGEANT  (to  the  second  Yager) . 
And  Yager,  let's  hear  where  your  country  is  ? 

SECOND   YAGER. 

Up  above  Wismar  my  fathers  dwell. 

SERGEANT  (pointing  to  the  Trumpeter). 
And  he's  from  Eger  —  and  I  as  well : 
And  now,  my  comrades,  I  ask  you  whether, 
Would  any  one  think,  when  looking  at  us, 
That  we,  from  the  North  and  South,  had  thus 
Been  hitherward  drifted  and  blown  together? 
Do  we  not  seem  as  hewn  from  one  mass  ? 
Stand  we  not  close  against  the  foe 
As  though  we  were  glued  or  moulded  so  ? 
Like  mill-work  don't  we  move,  d'ye  think ! 
'Mong  ourselves  in  the  nick,  at  a  word  or  wink. 
Who  has  thus  cast  us  here  all  as  one, 
Now  to  be  severed  again  by  none  ? 
Who  ?  why,  no  other  than  Wallenstein  ! 

FIRST   YAGER. 

In  my  life  it  ne'er  was  a  thought  of  mine 
Whether  we  suited  each  other  or  not, 
I  let  myself  go  with  the  rest  of  the  lot. 


144  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 


FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 


I  quite  agree  in  the  sergeant's  opinion  — 
They'd  fain  have  an  end  of  our  camp  dominion, 
And  trample  the  soldier  down,  that  they 
May  govern  alone  in  their  own  good  way. 
'Tis  a  conspiration  —  a  plot,  I  say  ! 


SUTLER- WOMAN. 

A  conspiration  —  God  help  the  day! 
Then  my  customers  won't  have  cash  to  pay. 

SERGEANT. 

Why,  faith,  we  shall  all  be  bankrupts  made  ; 
The  captains  and  generals,  most  of  them,  paid 
The  costs  of  the  regiments  with  private  cash, 
And,  wishing,  'bove  all,  to  cut  a  dash, 
Went  a  little  beyond  their  means  —  but  thought, 
No  doubt,  that  they  thus  had  a  bargain  bought. 
Now  they'll  be  cheated,  sirs,  one  and  all, 
Should  our  chief,  our  head,  the  general  fall. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  this  curse  I  never  can  brook 
Why,  half  of  the  army  stand  in  my  book. 
Two  hundred  dollars  I've  trusted  madly 
That  Count  Isolani  who  pays  so  badly. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Well,  comrades,  let's  fix  on  what's  to  be  done  — 
Of  the  ways  to  save  us,  I  see  but  one ; 
If  we  hold  together  we  need  not  fear ; 
So  let  us  stand  out  as  one  man  here ; 
And  then  they  may  order  and  send  as  they  will, 
Fast  planted  we'll  stick  in  Bohemia  still. 
We'll  never  give  in  —  no,  nor  march  an  inch, 
We  stand  on  our  honor,  and  must  not  flinch. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

We're  not  to  be  driven  the  country  about, 
Let'em  come  here,  and  they'll  find  it  out. 


WALLENSTEIN'S.  CAMP.  145 

FIKST  ARQUEBUSIER. 

Good  sirs,  'twere  well  to  bethink  ye  still, 
That  such  is  the  emperor's  sovereign  will. 

TRUMPETER. 

Oh,  as  to  the  emperor,  we  needn't  be  nice. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

Let  me  not  hear  you  say  so  twice. 

TRUMPETER. 

Why,  'tis  even  so  —  as  I  just  have  said. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

True,  man  —  I've  always  heard  'em  say, 
'Tis  Friedland,  alone,  you've  here  to  obey. 

SERGEANT. 

By  our  bargain  with  him  it  should  be  so, 
Absolute  power  is  his,  you  must  know, 
We've  war,  or  peace,  but  as  he  may  please, 
Or  gold  or  goods  he  has  power  to  seize, 
And  hanging  or  pardon  his  will  decrees. 
Captains  and  colonels  he  makes  —  and  he, 
In  short,  by  the  imperial  seal  is  free, 
To  hold  all  the  marks  of  sovereignty. 

FIRST     ARQUEBUSIER. 

The  duke  is  high  and  of  mighty  will, 
But  yet  must  remain,  for  good  or  for  ill, 
Like  us  all,  but  the  emperor's  servant  still. 

SERGEANT. 

Not  like  us  all  —  I  there  disagree  — 

Friedland  is  quite  independent  and  free, 

The  Bavarian  is  no  more  a  prince  than  he 

For,  was  I  not  by  myself  to  see, 

When  on  duty  at  Brandeis,  how  the  emperor  said, 

He  wished  him  to  cover  his  princely  head. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

That  was  because  of  the  Mecklenburgh  land, 
Which  he  held  in  pawn  from  the  emperor's  hand. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

FIRST  YAGER  (to  the  Sergeant). 
In  the  emperor's  presence,  man  !  say  you  so? 
That,  beyond  doubt,  was  a  wonderful  go ! 

SERGEANT  (feels  in  his  pocket). 
If  you  question  my  word  in  what  I  have  told, 
I  can  give  you  something  to  grasp  and  hold. 

[Showing  a  coin, 
Whose  image  and  stamp  d'ye  here  behold  ? 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Oh !  that  is  a  Wallenstein's,  sure ! 

SERGEANT-MAJOR. 

Well,  there,  you  have  it  —  what  doubt  can  rest 
Is  he  not  prince,  just  as  good  as  the  best  ? 
Coins  he  not  money  like  Ferdinand  ? 
Hath  he  not  his  own  subjects  and  land  ? 
Is  he  not  called  your  highness,  I  pray  ? 
And  why  should  he  not  have  his  soldiers  in 

FIRST   ARQUEBUSIER. 

That  no  one  has  ever  meant  to  gainsay ; 
But  we're  still  at  the  emperor's  beck  and  call, 
For  his  majesty  'tis  who  pays  us  all. 

TRUMPETER. 

In  your  teeth  I  deny  it  —  and  will  again  — 
His  majesty  'tis  who  pays  us  not, 
For  this  forty  weeks,  say,  what  have  we  got 
But  a  promise  to  pay,  believed  in  vain  ? 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

What  then  I  'tis  kept  in  safe  hands,  I  suppose. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Peace,  good  sirs,  will  you  come  to  blows  ? 
Have  you  a  quarrel  and  squabble  to  know 
If  the  emperor  be  our  master  or  no  ? 
'Tis  because  of  our  rank,  as  his  soldiers  brave, 
That  we  scorn  the  lot  of  the  herded  slave ; 
And  will  not  be  driven  from  place  to  place, 
As  priest  or  puppies  our  path  may  trace. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  147 

And,  tell  me,  is't  not  the  sovereign's  gain, 
If  the  soldiers  their  dignity  will  maintain? 
Who  but  his  soldiers  give  him  the  state 
Of  a  mighty,  wide-ruling  potentate  ? 
Make  and  preserve  for  him,  far  and  near, 
The  voice  which  Christendom  quakes  to  hear? 
Well  enough  they  may  his  yoke-chain  bear, 
Who  feast  on  his  favors,  and  daily  share, 
In  golden  chambers,  his  sumptuous  fare. 
We  — we  of  his  splendors  have  no  part, 
Naught  but  hard  wearying  toil  and  care, 
And  the  pride  that  lives  in  a  soldier's  heart. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

All  great  tyrants  and  kings  have  shown 
Their  wit,  as  I  take  it,  in  what  they've  done; 
They've  trampled  all  others  with  stern  command 
But  the  soldier  they've  led  with  a  gentle  hand. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

The  soldier  his  worth  must  understand ; 
Whoe'er  doesn't  nobly  drive  the  trade, 
'Twere  best  from  the  business  far  he'd  stayed. 
If  I  cheerily  set  my  life  on  a  throw, 
Something  still  better  than  life  I'll  know; 
Or  I'll  stand  to  be  slain  for  the  paltry  pelf, 
As  the  Croat  still  does  —  and  scorn  myself. 

BOTH    YAGERS. 

Yes  —  honor  is  dearer  than  life  itself. 

FIRST   CUIRASSIER. 

The  sword  is  no  plough,  nor  delving  tool, 
He,  who  would  till  with  it,  is  but  a  fool. 
For  us,  neither  grass  nor  grain  doth  grow, 
Houseless  the  soldier  is  doomed  to  go, 
A  changeful  wanderer  over  the  earth, 
Ne'er  knowing  the  warmth  of  a  home-lit  hearth, 
The  city  glances  —  he  halts  —  not  there  — 
Nor  in  village  meadows,  so  green  and  fair ; 
The  vintage  and  harvest  wreath  are  twined 
He  sees,  but  must  leave  them  far  behind. 


148  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

Then,  tell  me,  what  hath  the  soldier  left, 
If  he's  once  of  his  self-esteem  bereft  ? 
Something  he  must  have  his  own  to  call, 
Or  on  slaughter  and  burnings  at  once  he'll  fall. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

God  knows,  'tis  a  wretched  life  to  live ! 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Yet  one,  which  I,  for  no  other  would  give, 
Look  ye  —  far  round  in  the  world  I've  been, 
And  all  of  its  different  service  seen. 
The  Venetian  Republic  —  the  Kings  of  Spain 
And  Naples  I've  served,  and  served  in  vain. 
Fortune  still  frowned  —  and  merchant  and  knight. 
Craftsmen  and  Jesuit,  have  met  my  sight ; 
Yet,  of  all  their  jackets,  not  one  have  I  known 
To  please  me  like  this  steel  coat  of  my  own. 

FIRST   ARQUEBUSIER. 

Well  —  that  now  is  what  I  can  scarcely  say. 

FIRST   CUIRASSIER. 

In  the  world,  a  man  who  would  make  his  way, 
Must  plague  and  bestir  himself  night  and  day. 
To  honor  and  place  if  he  choose  the  road, 
He  must  bend  his  back  to  the  golden  load. 
And  if  home-delights  should  his  fancy  please, 
With  children  and  grandchildren  round  his  knees, 
Let  him  follow  an  honest  trade  in  peace. 
I've  no  taste  for  this  kind  of  life  —  not  I! 
Free  will  I  live,  and  as  freely  die. 
No  man's  spoiler  nor  heir  will  I  be  — 
But,  throned  on  my  nag,  I  will  smile  to  see 
The  coil  of  the  crowd  that  is  under  me. 

FIRST   YAGER. 

Bravo  !  — that's  as  I've  always  done. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

In  truth,  sirs,  it  may  be  far  better  fun 

To  trample  thus  over  your  neighbor's  crown. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  149 

FIRST   CUIRASSIER. 

Comrade,  the  times  are  bad  of  late  — 

The  sword  and  the  scales  live  separate. 

But  do  not  then  blame  that  I've  preferred, 

Of  the  two,  to  lean,  as  I  have,  to  the  sword. 

For  mercy  in  war  I  will  yield  to  none, 

Though  I  never  will  stoop  to  be  drummed  upon. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

Who  but  the  soldier  the  blame  should  bear 
That  the  laboring  poor  so  hardly  fare  ? 
The  war  with  its  plagues,  which  all  have  blasted 
Now  sixteen  years  in  the  land  hath  lasted. 

FIRST   CUIRASSIER. 

Why,  brother,  the  blessed  God  above 

Can't  have  from  us  all  an  equal  love. 

One  prays  for  the  sun,  at  which  t'other  will  fret 

One  is  for  dry  weather — t'other  for  wet. 

What  you,  now,  regard  as  with  misery  rife, 

Is  to  me  the  unclouded  sun  of  life. 

If  'tis  at  the  cost  of  the  burgher  and  boor, 

I  really  am  sorry  that  they  must  endure  ; 

But  how  can  I  help  it  ?     Here,  you  must  know, 

'Tis  just  like  a  cavalry  charge  'gainst  the  foe : 

The  steeds  loud  snorting,  and  on  they  go ! 

Whoever  may  lie  in  the  mid-career  — 

Be  it  my  brother  or  son  so  dear, 

Should  his  dying  groan  my  heart  divide, 

Yet  over  his  body  I  needs  must  ride, 

Nor  pitying  stop  to  drag  him  aside. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

True  —  who  ever  asks  how  another  may  bide  ? 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Thus,  my  lads,  'tis  my  counsel,  while 

On  the  soldier  Dame  Fortune  deigns  to  smile, 

That  we  with  both  hands  her  bounty  clasp, 

For  it  may  not  be  much  longer  left  to  our  grasp. 

Peace  will  be  coming  some  over-night, 

And  then  there's  an  end  of  our  martial  might. 


150  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

The  soldier  unhorsed,  and  fresh  mounted  the  boor, 

Ere  you  can  think  it  'twill  be  as  before. 

As  yet  we're  together  firm  bound  in  the  land, 

The  hilt  is  yet  fast  in  the  soldier's  hand. 

But  let  'em  divide  us,  and  soon  we  shall  find 

Short  commons  is  all  that  remains  behind. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

No,  no,  by  the  Lord !  that  won't  do  for  me. 
Come,  come,  lads,  let's  all  now,  as  one,  agree. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Yes,  let  us  resolve  on  what  'tis  to  be. 

FIRST    ARQUEBUSIER. 

(  To  the  Sutler-woman,  drawing  out  his  leather  purse). 
Hostess,  tell  us  how  high  you've  scored. 

SUTLER-WOMAN. 

Oh,  tis  unworthy  a  single  word.  [  They  settle. 

TRUMPETER. 

You  do  well,  sirs,  to  take  a  further  walk, 
Your  company  only  disturbs  our  talk. 

[Exeunt  Arquebusiers. 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Plague  take  the  fellows  —  they're  brave,  I  know. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

They  haven't  a  soul  'bove  a  soapboiler's,  though. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

We're  now  alone,  so  teach  us  who  can 
How  best  we  may  meet  and  mar  their  plan. 

TRUMPETER. 

How  ?    Why,  let's  tell  them  we  will  not  go  ! 

FIRST    CUIRASSIER. 

Despising  all  discipline  !  no,  my  lads,  no, 
Rather  his  corps  let  each  of  us  seek, 
And  quietly  then  with  his  comrades  speak, 
That  every  soldier  may  clearly  know, 
It  were  not  for  his  good  so  far  to  go ; 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  151 

For  my  Walloons  to  answer  I'm  free, 
Every  man  of  'em  thinks  and  acts  with  me. 

SERGEANT. 

The  Terzky  regiments,  both  horse  and  foot, 
Will  thus  resolve,  and  will  keep  them  to't. 

SECOND   CUIRASSIER  (joining  the  first). 
The  Walloons  and  the  Lombards  one  intent. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

Freedom  is  Yagers'  own  element. 

SECOND    YAGER. 

Freedom  must  ever  with  might  entwine  — 
I  live  and  will  die  by  Wallenstein. 

FIRST    SHARPSHOOTER. 

The  Lorrainers  go  on  with  the  strongest  tide, 
Where  spirits  are  light  and  courage  tried. 

DRAGOON. 
An  Irishman  follows  his  fortune's  star. 

SECOND    SHARPSHOOTER. 

The  Tyrolese  for  their  sovereign  war. 

FIRST  CUIRASSIER. 

Then,  comrades,  let  each  of  our  corps  agree 
A  pro  memoria  to  sign  —  that  we, 
In  spite  of  all  force  or  fraud,  will  be 
To  the  fortunes  of  Friedland  firmly  bound, 
For  in  him  is  the  soldier's  father  found. 
This  we  will  humbly  present,  when  done, 
To  Piccolomini  —  I  mean  the  son  — 
Who  understands  these  kind  of  affairs, 
And  the  Friedlander's  highest  favor  shares ; 
Besides,  with  the  emperor's  self,  they  say 
He  holds  a  capital  card  to  play. 

SECOND  YAGER. 

Well,  then,  in  this,  let  us  all  agree, 
That  the  colonel  shall  our  spokesmen  be ! 


152  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

ALL  (going). 
Good  !  the  colonel  shall  our  spokesman  be. 

SERGEANT. 

Hold,  sirs  —  just  toss  off  a  glass  with  me 
To  the  health  of  Piccolomini. 

SUTLER- WOMAN  (brings  a  flask). 
This  shall  not  go  to  the  list  of  scores, 
I  gladly  give  it  —  success  be  yours ! 

CUIBASSIEB. 
The  soldier  shall  sway ! 

BOTH  YAGEBS. 

The  peasant  shall  pay ! 

DRAGOONS   and  SHARPSHOOTERS. 

The  army  shall  flourishing  stand ! 

TRUMPETER  and  SERGEANT. 

And  the  Friedlander  keep  the  command  ! 

SECOND  CUIRASSIER  (sings). 
Arouse  ye,  my  comrades,  to  horse  !  to  horse  1 

To  the  field  and  to  freedom  we  guide  ! 
For  there  a  man  feels  the  pride  of  his  force 

And  there  is  the  heart  of  him  tried. 
No  help  to  him  there  by  another  is  shown, 
He  stands  for  himself  and  himself  alone. 

[  The  soldiers  from  the  background  ham  come 
forward  during  the  singing  of  this  verse  and 
form  the  chorus. 

Chorus. 

No  help  to  him  by  another  is  shown, 
He  stands  for  himself  and  himself  alone. 

DRAGOON. 
Now  freedom  hath  fled  from  the  world,  we  find 

But  lords  and  their  bondsmen  vile  : 
And  nothing  holds  sway  in  the  breast  of  mankind 

Save  falsehood  and  cowardly  guile. 


WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

Who  looks  in  death's  face  with  a  fearless  brow, 
The  soldier,  alone,  is  the  freeman  now. 

Chorus. 

Who  looks  in  death's  face  with  a  fearless  brow, 
The  soldier,  alone,  is  the  freeman  now. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

With  the  troubles  of  life  he  ne'er  bothers  his  pate, 

And  feels  neither  fear  nor  sorrow ; 
But  boldly  rides  onward  to  meet  with  his  fate  — 

He  may  meet  it  to-day,  or  to-morrow ! 
And,  if  to-morrow  'twill  come,  then,  I  say, 
Drain  we  the  cup  of  life's  joy  to-day  ! 

Chorus. 

And,  if  to-morrow  'twill  come,  then,  I  say, 
Drain  we  the  cup  of  life's  joy  to-day  ! 

[  The  glasses  are  here  refilled,  and  all  drink, 

SERGEANT. 

'Tis  from  heaven  his  jovial  lot  has  birth ; 

Nor  needs  he  to  strive  or  toil. 
The  peasant  may  grope  in  the  bowels  of  earth, 

And  for  treasure  may  greedily  moil : 
He  digs  and  he  delves  through  life  for  the  pelf, 
And  digs  till  he  grubs  out  a  grave  for  himself. 

Chorus. 

He  digs  and  he  delves  through  life  for  the  pelf, 
And  digs  till  he  grubs  out  a  grave  for  himself. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

The  rider  and  lightning  steed  —  a  pair 

Of  terrible  guests,  I  ween  ! 
From  the  bridal-hall,  as  the  torches  glare, 

Unbidden  they  join  the  scene; 
Nor  gold,  nor  wooing,  his  passion  prove ; 
By  storm  he  carries  the  prize  of  love ! 

Chorus. 

Nor  gold,  nor  wooing,  his  passion  prove; 
By  storm  he  carries  the  prize  of  love ! 


154  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP. 

SECOND    CUIRASSIER. 

Why  mourns  the  wench  with  so  sorrowful  face? 

Away,  girl,  the  soldier  must  go  ! 
No  spot  on  the  earth  is  his  resting-place ; 

And  your  true  love  he  never  can  know. 
Still  onward  driven  by  fate's  rude  wind, 
He  nowhere  may  leave  his  peace  behind. 

Chorus. 

Still  onward  driven  by  fate's  rude  wind, 
He  nowhere  may  leave  his  peace  behind. 

FIRST    YAGER. 

He  takes  the  two  next  to  him  by  the  hand —  the  others  do 

the  same  —  and  form  a  large  semi-circle. 
Then  rouse  ye,  my  comi-ades  —  to  horse !  to  horse ! 

In  battle  the  breast  doth  swell ! 
Youth  boils  —  the  life-cup  foams  in  "its  force  — 

Up  !  ere  time  can  dew  dispel ! 
And  deep  be  the  stake,  as  the  prize  is  high  — 
Who  life  would  win,  he  must  dare  to  die  ! 

Chorus. 

And  deep  be  the  stake,  as  the  prize  is  high ! 
Who  life  would  win,  he  must  dare  to  die ! 

[The  curtain  falls  before  the  chorus  has  finished. 


THE  PICCOLOMINL 


PREFACE. 

THE  two  dramas,  —  PICCOLOMINI,  or  the  first  part  of 
WALLENSTEIX,  and  the  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN,  are 
introduced  in  the  original  manuscript  by  a  prelude  in 
one  act,  entitled  WALLENSTEIN'S  CAMP.  This  is  written 
in  rhyme,  and  in  nine-syllable  verse,  in  the  same  lilting 
metre  (if  that  expression  may  be  permitted),  with  the 
second  Eclogue  of  Spenser's  Shepherd's  Calendar. 

This  prelude  possesses  a  sort  of  broad  humor,  and  is 
not  deficient  in  character  :  but  to  have  translated  it  into 
prose,  or  into  any  other  metre  than  that  of  the  original, 
would  have  given  a  false  idea  both  of  its  style  and  pur- 
port; to  have  translated  it  into  the  same  metre  would 
have  been  incompatible  with  a  faithful  adherence  to  the 
sense  of  the  German  from  the  comparative  poverty  of 
our  language  in  rhymes;  and  it  would  have  been  tin  ad- 
visable,  from  the  incongruity  of  those  lax  verses  with  the 
present  taste  of  the  English  public.  Schiller's  intention 
seems  to  have  been  merely  to  have  prepared  his  reader 
for  the  tragedies  by  a  lively  picture  of  laxity  of  discipline 
and  the  mutinous  dispositions  of  "Wallenstein's  soldiery. 
It  is  not  necessary  as  a  preliminary  explanation.  For 
these  reasons  it  has  been  thought  expedient  not  to  trans- 
late it. 

The  admirers  of  Schiller,  who  have  abstracted  their 
idea  of  that  author  from  the  Robbers,  and  the  Cabal  and 
Love,  plays  in  which  the  main  interest  is  produced  by 
the  excitement  of  curiosity,  and  in  which  the  curiosity  is 
excited  by  terrible  and  extraordinary  incident,  will  not 
have  perused  without  some  portion  of  disappointment 
the  dramas,  which  it  has  been  my  employment  to  trans- 
late. They  should,  however,  reflect  that  these  are  his- 
torical dramas  taken  from  a  popular  German  history ; 

105 


156  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

that  we  must,  therefore,  judge  of  them  in  some  measure 
with  the  feelings  of  Germans ;  or,  by  analogy,  with  the 
interest  excited  in  us  by  similar  dramas  in  our  own  lan- 
guage. Few,  I  trust,  would  be  rash  or  ignorant  enough 
to  compare  Schiller  with  Shakspeare ;  yet,  merely  as 
illustration,  I  would  say  that  we  should  proceed  to  the 
perusal  of  Wallenstein,  not  from  Lear  or  Othello,  but 
from  Richard  II.,  or  the  three  parts  of  Henry  VI.  We 
scarcely  expect  rapidity  in  an  historical  drama;  and 
many  prolix  speeches  are  pardoned  from  characters  whose 
names  and  actions  have  formed  the  most  amusing  tales 
of  our  early  life.  On  the  other  hand,  there  exist  in  these 
plays  more  individual  beauties,  more  passages  whose 
excellence  will  bear  reflection  than  in  the  former  pro- 
ductions of  Schiller.  The  description  of  the  Astrological 
Tower,  and  the  reflections  of  the  Young  Lover,  which 
follow  it,  form  in  the  original  a  fine  poem ;  and  my  trans- 
lation must  have  been  wretched  indeed  if  it  can  have 
wholly  overclouded  the  beauties  of  the  scene  in  the  first 
act  of  the  first  play  between  Questenberg,  Max,  and 
Octavio  Piccolomini.  If  we  except  the  scene  of  the  set- 
ting sun  in  the  Robbers,  I  know  of  no  part  in  Schiller's 
plays  which  equals  the  first  scene  of  the  fifth  act  of  the 
concluding  plays.*  It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to 
be  more  diffuse  on  this  subject.  A  translator  stands 
connected  with  the  original  author  by  a  certain  law  of 

• 

subordination  which  makes  it  more  decorous  to  point  out 
excellences  than  defects  ;  indeed,  he  is  not  likely  to  be  a 
fair  judge  of  either.  The  pleasure  or  disgust  from  his 
own  labor  will  mingle  with  the  feelings  that  arise  from 
an  afterview  of  the  original.  Even  in  the  first  perusal 
of  a  work  in  any  foreign  language  which  we  understand, 
we  are  apt  to  attribute  to  it  more  excellence  than  it 
really  possesses  from  our  own  pleasurable  sense  of  diffi- 
culty overcome  without  effort.  Translation  of  poetry  into 
poetry  is  difficult,  because  the  translator  must  give  a  bril- 
liancy to  his  language  without  that  warmth  of  original 
conception  from  which  such  brilliancy  would  follow  of  its 
own  accord.  But  the  translator  of  a  living  author  is 
incumbered  with  additional  inconveniences.  If  he  render 

*  In  this  edition,  scene  iii.,  act  v. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  157 

his  original  faithfully  as  to  the  sense  of  each  passage,  he 
must  necessarily  destroy  a  considerable  portion  of  the 
spirit;  if  he  endeavor  to  give  a  work  executed  according 
to  laws  of  compensation  he  subjects  himself  to  imputa- 
tions of  vanity  or  misrepresentation.  I  have  thought  it 
my  duty  to  remain  bound  by  the  sense  of  my  original 
with  as  few  exceptions  as  the  nature  of  the  languages 
rendered  possible. 

S.  T.  C. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

WALLENSTEIN,  Duke  of  Friedland,  NEUMANN,  Captain  of  Cavalry,  A ide- 

Generalissimo    of    the    Imperial  de-Camp  to  Terzky. 

Forces  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  VON  QUESTENBERG,  the   War  Com- 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  Lieutenant-  missioner,  Imperial  Envoy. 

General.  BAPTISTA  SENI,  an  Astrologer. 

MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  his  Son,  Colonel  DUCHESS  OF  FREJDLAND,   Wife  of 

of  a  Regiment  of  Cuirassiers.  Wallenstein. 

COUNT  TERZKY,  the  Commander  of  THKKLA,  her  Daughter,  Princess  of 

several  Regiments,  and  Brother-in-  Fiiedland. 

law  of  Wallenstein.  THE  COUNTESS  TERZKY,  Sister  of 

ILLO,  Field-Marshal,    Wallenstein's  the  Duchess. 

Confidant.  A  CORNET. 

ISOLANI,  General  of  the  Croats.  COLONELS  and  GENERALS  (several). 

BUTLER,  an  Irishman,  Commander  PAGES  and  ATTENDANTS  belonging 

of  a  Regiment  of  Dragoons.  to  Wallenstein. 

TIEFENBACH,      \  ATTENDANTS  and  HOBOISTS  belong- 

DON  MARADAS,  I     Generals    under  ing  to  Terzky. 

GOETZ,                         Wallenstein.  MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  to  Count 

KOLATTO,  Terzky. 

VALET  DE  CHAMBRE  of  Count  Piccolomini. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

An  old  Gothic  Chamber  in  the  Council-House  at  Pilsen, 
decorated  with  Colors  and  other  War  Insignia. 

ILLO,  with  BUTLER  and  ISOLANI. 

ILLO. 

Ye  have  come  too  late  —  but  ye  are  come !    The  distance, 
Count  Isolani,  excuses  your  delay. 

ISOLANI. 

Add  this  too,  that  we  come  not  empty-handed. 
At  -Donauwerth  *  it  was  reported  to  us, 
A  Swedish  caravan  was  on  its  way, 
Transporting  a  rich  cargo  of  provision, 

*  A  town  about  twelve  German  miles  N.E.  of  Ulm. 
U8 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  159 

Almost  six  hundreds  wagons.     This  my  Croats 
Plunged  down  upon  and  seized,  this  weighty  prize!  — 
We  bring  it  hither 

ILLO. 

Just  in  time  to  banquet 
The  illustrious  company  assembled  here. 

BUfLER. 

'Tis  all  alive  !  a  stirring  scene  here  ! 

ISOLANI. 

Ay! 
The  very  churches  are  full  of  soldiers. 

[  Casts  his  eye  round. 
And  in  the  council-house,  too,  I  observe, 
You're  settled  quite  at  home  !     Well,  well !  we  soldiers 
Must  shift  and  suit  us  in  what  way  we  can. 

ILLO. 

We  have  the  colonels  here  of  thirty  regiments. 
You'll  find  Count  Terzky  here,  and  Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Hinnersam, 

The  Piccolomini,  both  son  and  father 

You'll  meet  with  many  an  unexpected  greeting 
From  many  an  old  friend  and  acquaintance.     Only 
Gallas  is  wanting  still,  and  Altringer. 

BUTLER. 

Expect  not  Gallas. 

ILLO  (hesitating). 
How  so?    Do  you  know 

ISOLANI  (interrupting  him). 

Max.  Piccolomini  here  ?     O  bring  me  to  him. 
I  see  him  yet  ('tis  now  ten  years  ago, 
We  were  engaged  with  Mansfeldt  hard  by  Dessau), 
I  see  the  youth,  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him, 
Leap  his  black  war-horse  from  the  bridge  adown, 
And  t'ward  his  father,  then  in  extreme  peril, 
Beat  up  against  the  strong  tide  of  the  Elbe. 


160  THE   PICCOL.OMINI. 

The  down  was  scarce  upon  his  chin !  I  hear 
He  has  made  good  the  promise  of  his  youth, 
And  the  full  hero  now  is  finished  in  him. 


ILLO. 

You'll  see  him  yet  ere  evening.     He  conducts 
The  Duchess  Friedland  hither,  and  the  princess  * 
From  Carnthen.f     We  expect  them  here  at  noon. 

BUTLER. 

Both  wife  and  daughter  does  the  duke  call  hither? 
He  crowds  in  visitants  from  all  sides. 

ISOLANI. 

Hm! 

So  much  the  better !  I  had  framed  my  mind 
To  hear  of  naught  but  warlike  circumstance, 
Of  marches  and  attacks,  and  batteries; 
And  lo !  the  duke  provides,  and  something  too 
Of  gentler  sort  and  lovely,  should  be  present 
To  feast  our  eyes. 

ILLO  (who  has  been  standing  in  the  attitude  of  meditation^ 
to  BUTLER,  whom  he  leads  a  little  on  one  side). 

And  how  came  you  to  know 

That  the  Count  Gallas  joins  us  not  ? 

BUTLER. 

Because 
He  importuned  me  to  remain  behind. 

ILLO  (with  warmth). 

And  you  ?    You  hold  out  firmly  ! 

[  Grasping  his  hand  with  affection 
Noble  Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

After  the  obligation  which  the  duke 
Had  laid  so  newly  on  me 

*  The  Dukes  in  Germany  being  always  reigning  powers,  their  sons  and 
daughters  are  entitled  princes  and  princesses, 
t  Carinthia. 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  161 

ILLO. 

I  had  forgotten 

A  pleasant  duty  —  major-general, 
I  wish  you  joy  ! 

ISOLANT. 

What,  you  mean,  of  this  regiment  ? 
I  hear,  too,  that  to  make  the  gift  still  sweeter, 
The  cluke  has  given  him  the  very  same 
In  which  he  first  saw  service,  and  since  then 
Worked  himself  step  by  step,  through  each  preferment, 
From  the  ranks  upwards.     And  verily,  it  gives 
A  precedent  of  hope,  a  spur  of  action 
To  the  whole  corps,  if  once  in  their  remembrance 
An  old  deserving  soldier  makes  his  way. 

BUTLEK. 

I  am  perplexed  and  doubtful  whether  or  no 

I  dare  accept  this  your  congratulation. 

The  emperor  has  not  yet  confirmed  the  appointment. 

ISOLANI. 

Seize  it,  friend,  seize  it !     The  hand  which  in  that  post 
Placed  you  is  strong  enough  to  keep  you  there, 
Spite  of  the  emperor  and  his  ministers ! 

ILLO. 

Ay,  if  we  would  but  so  consider  it !  — 
If  we  would  all  of  us  consider  it  so  ! 
The  emperor  gives  us  nothing ;  from  the  duke 
Comes  all  —  whate'er  we  hope,  whate'er  we  have. 

ISOLANI  (to  ILLO). 

My  noble  brother  !  did  I  tell  you  how 
The  duke  will  satisfy  my  creditors? 
Will  be  himself  my  bankers  for  the  future, 
Make  me  once  more  a  creditable  man! 
And  this  is  now  the  third  time,  think  of  that ! 
This  kingly-minded  man  has  rescued  me 
From  absolute  ruin  and  restored  my  honor. 

ILLO. 

Oh  that  his  power  but  kept  pace  with  his  wishes  ! 
Why,  friend  !  he'd  give  the  whole  world  to  his  soldiers. 


162  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

But  at  Vienna,  brother  !  —  here's  the  grievance,  — 
What  politic  schemes  do  they  not  lay  to  shorten 
His  arm,  and  where  they  can  to  clip  his  pinions. 
Then  these  new  dainty  requisitions  !  these 
Which  this  same  Questenberg  brings  hither ! 

BUTLER. 

Ay! 

Those  requisitions  of  the  emperor  — 

I  too  have  heard  about  them  ;  but  I  hope 

The  duke  will  not  draw  back  a  single  inch ! 

ILLO. 

Not  from  his  right  most  surely,  unless  first 
From  office  ! 

BUTLER  (shocked  and  confused}. 
Know  you  aught  then  ?     You  alarm  me. 

ISOLANI  (at  the  same  time  with  BUTLER,  and  in 

a  hurrying  voice). 
We  should  be  ruined,  every  one  of  us ! 

ILLO. 

Vender  I  see  our  worthy  friend  *  approaching 
With  the  Lieutenant-General  Piccolomini. 

BUTLER  (shaking  his  head  significantly). 
I  fear  we  shall  not  go  hence  as  we  came. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  and  QUESTENBERG 

OCTAVIO  (still  in  the  distance}. 
Ay !  ah  !  more  still  !    Still  more  new  visitors  ! 
Acknowledge,  friend  !  that  never  was  a  camp, 
Which  held  at  once  so  many  heads  of  heroes. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Let  none  approach  a  camp  of  Friedland's  troops 
Who  dares  to  think  unworthily  of  war; 

*  Spoken  with  a  sneer. 


'  THE    PICCOLOMINI.  163 

E'en  I  myself  had  nigh  forgot  its  evils 
When  I  surveyed  that  lofty  soul  of  order, 
By  which,  while  it  destroys  the  world  —  itself 
Maintains  the  greatness  which  itself  created. 

OCTAVIO  (approaching  nearer). 
Welcome,  Count  Isolani! 

ISOLANI. 

My  noble  brother  1 
Even  now  am  I  arrived  ;  it  has  been  else  my  duty  — 

OCTAVIO. 

And  Colonel  Butler  —  trust  me,  I  rejoice 
Thus  to  renew  acquaintance  with  a  man 
Whose  worth  and  services  I  know  and  honor. 
See,  see,  my  friend  ! 

There  might  we  place  at  once  before  our  eyes 
The  sum  of  war's  whole  trade  and  mystery  — 

[  To  QUESTENBERG,  presenting  BUTLER  ami 

ISOLANI  at  the  same  time  to  him. 
These  two  the  total  sum  —  strength  and  despatch. 

QUESTENBERG  (tO  OCTAVIO). 

And  lo !  betwixt  them  both,  experienced  prudence  ! 

OCTAVIO  (presenting  QUESTENBERG   to  BUTLER  and 
ISOLANI). 

The  Chamberlain  and  War-Commissioner  Questenberg. 

The  bearer  of  the  emperor's  behests, 

The  long-tried  friend  and  patron  of  all  soldiers, 

We  honor  in  this  noble  visitor.  [  Universal  silence, 

ILLO  (moving  towards  QUESTENBERG). 

'Tis  not  the  first  time,  noble  minister, 
You  have  shown  our  camp  this  honor. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Once  before 
I  stood  beside  these  colors. 


J64  THE   PICCOLOMIN1. 

ILLO. 

Perchance  too  you  remember  where  that  was ; 

It  was  at  Zna'im  *  in  Moravia,  where 

You  did  present  yourself  upon  the  part 

Of  the  emperor  to  supplicate  our  duke 

That  he  would  straight  assume  the  chief  command. 

QUESTENBURG. 

To  supplicate  f    Nay,  bold  general ! 

So  far  extended  neither  my  commission 

(At  least  to  my  own  knowledge)  nor  my  zeaL 

ILLO. 

Well,  well,  then  —  to  compel  him,  if  you  choose, 
I  can  remember  me  right  well,  Count  Tilly 
Had  suffered  total  rout  upon  the  Lech. 
Bavraria  lay  all  open  to  the  enemy, 
Whom  there  was  nothing  to  delay  from  pressing 
Onwards  into  the  very  heart  of  Austria. 
At  that  time  you  and  Werdenberg  appeared 
Before  our  general,  storming  him  with  prayers, 
And  menacing  the  emperor's  displeasure, 
Unless  he  took  compassion  on  this  wretchedness. 

ISOLANI  (steps  up  to  them). 
Yes,  yes,  'tis  comprehensible  enough, 
Wherefore  with  your  commission  of  to-day, 
You  were  not  all  too  willing  to  remember 
Your  former  one. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Why  not,  Count  Isolani  ? 
No  contradiction  sure  exists  between  them. 
It  was  the  urgent  business  of  that  time 
To  snatch  Bavaria  from  her  enemy's  hand  ; 
And  my  commision  of  to-day  instructs  me 
To  free  her  from  her  good  friends  and  protectors. 

ILLO. 

A  worthy  office  !     After  with  our  blood 
We  have  wrested  this  Bohemia  from  the  Saxon, 

*  A  town  not  far  from  the  Mine-mountains,  on  the  high  road  from  Vienna 
<p  Prague. 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  165 

To  be  swept  out  of  it  is  all  our  thanks, 

The  sole  reward  of  all  our  hard-won  victories. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Unless  that  wretched  land  be  doomed  to  suffer 

Only  a  change  of  evils,  it  must  be 

Freed  from  the  scourge  alike  of  friend  or  foe. 

ILLO. 

What  ?    'Twas  a  favorable  year ;  the  boors 
Can  answer  fresh  demands  already. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Nay, 
If  you  discourse  of  herds  and  meadow-grounds  — 

ISOLANI. 

The  war  maintains  the  war.     Are  the  boors  ruined 
The  emperor  gains  so  many  more  new  soldiers. 

QUESTENBERG. 

And  is  the  poorer  by  even  so  many  subjects. 

ISOLANI. 
Poh  !  we  are  all  his  subjects. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yet  with  a  difference,  general !     The  one  fill 

With  profitable  industry  the  purse, 

The  others  are  well  skilled  to  empty  it. 

The  sword  has  made  the  emperor  poor ;  the  plough 

Must  reinvigorate  his  resources. 

ISOLANI. 

Sure! 
Times  are  not  yet  so  bad.     Methinks  I  see 

[Examining  with  his  eye  the  dress  and  ornaments  of 

QUESTENBERG. 
Good  store  of  gold  that  still  remains  uncoined. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Thank  Heaven  !  that  means  have  been  found  out  to  hide 
Some  little  from  the  finders  of  the  Croats. 


166  THE   P1CCOLOMINI. 


ILLO. 

There !     The  Stawata  and  the  Martinitz, 

On  whom  the  emperor  heaps  his  gifts  and  graces, 

To  the  heart-burning  of  all  good  Bohemians  — 

Those  minions  of  court  favor,  those  court  harpies, 

Who  fatten  on  the  wrecks  of  citizens 

Driven  from  their  house  and  home  —  who  reap  no 

harvests 

Save  in  the  general  calamity  — 
Who  now,  with  kingly  pomp,  insult  and  mock 
The  desolation  of  their  country  —  these, 
Let  these,  and  such  as  these,  support  the  war, 
The  fatal  war,  which  they  alone  enkindled ! 

BUTLER. 

And  those  state-parasites,  who  have  their  feet 

So  constantly  beneath  the  emperor's  table, 

Who  cannot  let  a  benefice  fall,  but  they 

Snap  at  it  with  dogs'  hunger — they,  forsooth, 

Would  pare  the  soldiers  bread  and  cross  his  reckoning ! 

ISOLANI. 

My  life  long  will  it  anger  me  to  think, 
How  when  I  went  to  court  seven  years  ago, 
To  see  about  new  horses  for  our  regiment, 
How  from  one  antechamber  to  another 
They  dragged  me  on  and  left  me  by  the  hour 
To  kick  my  heels  among  a  crowd  of  simpering 
Feast-fattened  slaves,  as  if  I  had  come  thither 
A  mendicant  suitor  for  the  crumbs  of  favor 
That  fell  beneath  their  tables.     And,  at  last, 
Whom  should  they  send  me  but  a  Capuchin ! 
Straight  I  began  to  muster  up  my  sins 
For  absolution  —  but  no  such  luck  for  me ! 
This  was  the  man,  this  Capuchin,  with  whom 
I  was  to  treat  concerning  the  army  horses ! 
And  I  was  forced  at  last  to  quit  the  field, 
The  business  unaccomplished.     Afterwards 
The  duke  procured  me  in  three  days  what  I 
Could  not  obtain  in  thirty  at  Vienna. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  167 


QUESTENBERG. 

Yes,  yes  !  your  travelling  bills  soon  found  their  way  to  us ! 
Too  well  I  know  we  have  still  accounts  to  settle. 

ILLO. 

War  is  violent  trade  ;  one  cannot  always 
Finish  one's  work  by  soft  means ;  every  trifle 
Must  not  be  blackened  into  sacrilege. 
It'  we  should  wait  till  you,  in  solemn  council, 
With  due  deliberation  had  selected 
The  smallest  out  of  four-and-twenty  evils, 
I'  faith  we  should  wait  long  — 

•'  Dash !  and  through  with  it !  "    That's  the  better  watch- 
word. 

Then  after  come  what  may  come.     'Tis  man's  nature 
To  make  the  best  of  a  bad  thing  once  past. 
A  bitter  and  perplexed  "  what  shall  I  do?" 
Is  worse  to  man  than  worst  necessity. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ay,  doubtless,  it  is  true ;  the  duke  does  spare  us 
The  troublesome  task  of  choosing. 

BUTLER. 

Yes,  the  duke 

Cares  with  a  father's  feelings  for  his  troops ; 
But  how  the  emperor  feels  for  us,  we  see. 

QUESTENBERG. 

His  cares  and  feelings  all  ranks  share  alike, 
J^or  will  he  offer  one  up  to  another. 

ISOLANI. 

And  therefore  thrusts  he  us  into  the  deserts 
As  beasts  of  prey,  that  so  he  may  preserve 
His  dear  sheep  fattening  in  his  fields  at  home. 

QUESTENBERG  (with  a  sneer). 
Count !  this  comparison  you  make,  not  I. 

ILLO. 

Why,  were  we  all  the  court  supposes  us 
'Twere  dangerous,  sure,  to  give  us  liberty. 


108  THE   PICCOLOMIN1. 

QUESTENBERG  (gravely). 

You  have  taken  liberty  —  it  was  not  given  you, 
And  therefore  it  becomes  an  urgent  duty 
To  rein  it  in  with  the  curbs. 

ILLO. 
Expect  to  find  a  restive  steed  in  us. 

QUESTENBERG. 

A  better  rider  may  be  found  to  rule  it. 

ILLO. 
He  only  brooks  the  rider  who  has  tamed  him. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ay,  tame  him  once,  and  then  a  child  may  lead  him. 

ILLO. 
The  child,  we  know,  is  found  for  him  already. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Be  duty,  sir,  your  study,  not  a  name. 

BUTLER  (who  has  stood  aside  with  PICCOLOMINI,  but  with 

visible  interest  in  the  conversation,  advances). 
Sir  president,  the  emperor  has  in  Germany 
A  splendid  host  assembled  ;  in  this  kingdom 
Full  twenty  thousand  soldiers  are  cantoned, 
With  sixteen  thousand  in  Silesia ; 
Ten  regiments  are  posted  on  the  Weser, 
The  Rhine,  and  Maine  ;  in  Swabia  there  are  six, 
And  in  Bavaria  twelve,  to  face  the  Swedes ; 
Without  including  in  the  account  the  garrisons 
Who  on  the  frontiers  hold  the  fortresses. 
This  vast  and  mighty  host  is  all  obedient 
To  Friedland's  captains ;  and  its  brave  commanders, 
Bred  in  one  school,  and  nurtured  with  one  milk, 
Are  all  excited  by  one  heart  and  soul ; 
They  are  as  strangers  on  the  soil  they  tread, 
The  service  is  their  only  house  arid  home. 
No  zeal  inspires  them  for  their  country's  cause, 
For  thousands  like  myself  were  born  abroad ; 
Nor  care  they  for  the  emperor,  for  one  half 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  169 

Deserting  other  service  fled  to  ours, 
Indifferent  what  their  banner,  whether  'twere, 
The  Double  Eagle,  Lily,  or  the  Lion. 
Yet  one  sole  man  can  rein  this  fiery  host 
By  equal  rule,  by  equal  love  and  fear ; 
Blending  the  many-nationed  whole  in  one; 
And  like  the  lightning's  fires  securely  led 
Down  the  conducting  rod,  e'en  thus  his  power 
Rules  all  the  mass,  from  guarded  post  to  post, 
From  where  the  sentry  hears  the  Baltic  roar, 
Or  views  the  fertile  vales  of  the  Adige, 
E'en  to  the  body-guard,  who  holds  his  watch 
Within  the  precincts  of  the  imperial  palace ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

What's  the  short  meaning  of  this  long  harangue? 

BUTLER. 

That  the  respect,  the  love,  the  confidence, 

Which  makes  us  willing  subjects  of  Duke  Friedland, 

Are  not  to  be  transferred  to  the  first  comer 

That  Austria's  court  may  please  to  send  to  us. 

We  have  not  yet  so  readily  forgotten 

How  the  command  came  into  Friedland's  hands. 

Was  it,  forsooth,  the  emperor's  majesty 

That  gave  the  army  ready  to  his  hand, 

And  only  sought  a  leader  for  it  ?     No. 

The  army  then  had  no  existence.     He, 

Friedland,  it  was  who  called  it  into  being, 

And  gave  it  to  his  sovereign  —  but  receiving 

No  army  at  his  hand ;  nor  did  the  emperor 

Give  Wallenstein  to  us  as  general.     No, 

It  was  from  Wallenstein  we  first  received 

The  emperor  as  our  master  and  our  sovereign; 

And  he,  he  only,  binds  us  to  our  banners  ! 

OCTAVIO  (interposing  and  addressing  QUESTENBEBG). 

My  noble  friend, 

This  is  no  more  than  a  remembrancing 
That  you  are  now  in  camp,  and  among  warriors ; 
The  soldier's  boldness  constitutes  his  freedom. 


170  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

Could  he  act  daringly,  unless  he  dared 
Talk  even  so?    One  runs  into  the  other. 
The  boldness  of  this  worthy  officer, 

\_Pointing  to  BUTLER 
Which  now  is  but  mistaken  in  its  mark, 
Preserved,  when  naught  but  boldness  could  preserve  it, 
To  the  emperor,  his  capital  city,  Prague, 
In  a  most  formidable  mutiny 

Of  the  whole  garrison.        [Military  music  at  a  distance, 
Hah !  here  they  come ! 

ILLO. 

The  sentries  are  saluting  them :  this  signal 
Announces  the  arrival  of  the  duchess. 

OCTAVIO  (to  QUESTENBERG). 

Then  my  son  Max.,  too,  has  returned.     'Twas  he 
Fetched  and  attended  them  from  Carnthen  hither. 

ISOLANI  (to  ILLO). 
Shall  we  not  go  in  company  to  greet  them  ? 

ILLO. 

Well,  let  us  go  —  Ho !  Colonel  Butler,  come.  [  To  OCTAVIO. 
You'll  not  forget  that  yet  ere  noon  we  meet 
The  uoble  envoy  at  the  general's  palace. 

[Exeunt  all  but  QUESTENBERG  and  OCTAVIO. 

SCENE  III. 

QUESTENBEKG  and  OCTAVIO. 
QUESTENBERG  (with  signs  of  aversion  and  astonishment). 

What  have  I  not  been  forced  to  hear,  Octavio ! 
What  sentiments  !  what  fierce,  uncurbed  defiance ! 
And  were  this  spirit  universal  — 

OCTAVIO. 

Hm! 
You  are  now  acquainted  with  three-fourths  of  the  army 

QUESTENBERG. 

Where  must  we  seek,  then,  for  a  second  host 
To  have  the  custody  of  this?    That  Illo 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  171 

Thinks  worse,  I  fear  me,  than  he  speaks.    And  then 
This  Butler,  too  —  he  cannot  even  conceal 
The  passionate  workings  of  his  ill  intentions. 

OCTAVIO. 

Quickness  of  temper — irritated  pride; 
'Twas  nothing  more.     I  cannot  give  up  Butler. 
I  know  a  spell  that  will  soon  dispossess 
The  evil  spirit  in  him. 

QUESTENBEKG  (walking  up  and  down  in  evident  disquiet). 

Friend,  friend  ! 

O  !  this  is  worse,  far  worse,  than  we  had  suffered 
Ourselves  to  dream  of  at  Vienna.     There 
We  saw  it  only  with  a  courtier's  eyes, 
Eyes  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  the  throne. 
We  had  not  seen  the  war-chief,  the  commander, 
The  man  all-powerful  in  his  camp.     Here,  here, 
'Tis  quite  another  thing. 

Here  is  no  emperor  more  —  the  duke  is  emperor. 
Alas,  my  friend  !  alas,  my  noble  friend  ! 
This  walk  which  you  have  ta'en  me  through  the  camp 
Strikes  my  hopes  prostrate. 

OCTAVIO. 

Now  you  see  yourself 
Of  what  a  perilous  kind  the  office  is, 
Which  you  deliver  to  me  from  the  court. 
The  least  suspicion  of  the  general 
Costs  me  my  freedom  and  my  life,  and  would 
But  hasten  his  most  desperate  enterprise. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Where  was  our  reason  sleeping  when  we  trusted 
This  madman  with  the  sword,  and  placed  such  power 
In  such  a  hand  ?    I  tell  you,  he'll  refuse, 
Flatly  refuse  to  obey  the  imperial  orders. 
Friend,  he  can  do  it,  and  what  he  can,  he  will. 
And  then  the  impunity  of  his  defiance  — 
Oh  !  what  a  proclamation  of  our  weakness  ! 


172  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

D'ye  think,  too,  he  has  brought  his  wife  and  daughter 

Without  a  purpose  hither?     Here  in  camp  ! 

And  at  the  very  point  of  time  in  which 

We're  arming  for  the  war  ?     That  he  has  taken 

These,  the  last  pledges  of  his  loyalty, 

Away  from  out  the  emperor's  dominions  — 

This  is  no  doubtful  token  of  the  nearness 

Of  some  eruption. 

QUESTENBERG. 

How  shall  we  hold  footing 
Beneath  this  tempest,  which  collects  itself 
And  threats  us  from  all  quarters  ?     The  enemy 
Of  the  empire  on  our  borders,  now  already 
The  master  of  the  Danube,  and  still  farther, 
And  farther  still,  extending  every  hour! 
In  our  interior  the  alarum-bells 
Of  insurrection  —  peasantry  in  arms  — 
All  orders  discontented  —  and  the  army, 
Just  in  the  moment  of  our  expectation 
Of  aidance  from  it  —  lo  !  this  very  army 
Seduced,  run  wild,  lost  to  all  discipline, 
Loosened,  and  rent  asunder  from  the  state 
And  from  their  sovereign,  the  blind  instrument 
Of  the  most  daring  of  mankind,  a  weapon 
Of  fearful  power,  which  at  his  will  he  wields 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  nay,  friend  !  let  us  not  despair  too  soon  — 
Men's  words  are  even  bolder  than  their  deeds ; 
And  many  a  resolute,  who  now  appears 
Made  up  to  all  extremes,  will,  on  a  sudden, 
Find  in  his  breast  a  heart  he  wot  not  of, 
Let  but  a  single  honest  man  speak  out 
The  true  name  of  his  crime  !     Remember,  too, 
We  stand  not  yet  so  wholly  unprotected. 
Counts  Altringer  and  Gallas  have  maintained 
Their  little  army  faithful  to  its  duty, 
And  daily  it  becomes  more  numerous. 
Nor  can  he  take  us  by  surprise  ;  you  know 
I  hold  him  all  encompassed  by  my  listeners. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  173 

What'er  he  does,  is  mine,  even  while  'tis  doing     — 
No  step  so  small,  but  instantly  I  hear  it ; 
Yea,  his  own  mouth  discloses  it. 

QUESTENBEBG. 

'Tis  quite 

Incomprehensible,  that  he  detects  not 
The  foe  so  near ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Beware,  you  do  not  think, 
That  I,  by  lying  arts,  and  complaisant 
Hypocrisy,  have  sulked  into  his  graces, 
Or  with  the  substance  of  smooth  professions 
Nourish  his  all-confiding  friendship !     No  — 
Compelled  alike  by  prudence,  and  that  duty 
Which  we  all  owe  our  country  and  our  sovereign, 
To  hide  my  genuine  feelings  from  him,  yet 
Ne'er  have  I  duped  him  with  base  counterfeits ! 

QUESTEKBERG. 

It  is  the  visible  ordinance  of  heaven. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  that  so  attracts 

And  links  him  both  to  me  and  to  my  son. 

Comrades  and  friends  we  always  were — long  habit. 

Adventurous  deeds  performed  in  company, 

And  all  those  many  and  various  incidents 

Which  stores  a  soldier's  memory  with  affections, 

Had  bound  us  long  and  early  to  each  other  — 

Yet  I  can  name  the  day,  when  all  at  once 

His  heart  rose  on  me,  and  his  confidence 

Shot  out  into  sudden  growth.     It  was  the  morning 

Before  the  memorable  fight  at  Ltitzen. 

Urged  by  an  ugly  dream,  I  sought  him  out, 

To  press  hinf  to  accept  another  charger. 

At  ta  distance  from  the  tents,  beneath  a  tree, 

I  found  him  in  a  sleep.     When  I  had  waked  him 

And  had  related  all  my  bodings  to  him, 

Long  time  he  stared  upon  me,  like  a  man 

Astounded  :  thereon  fell  upon  my  neck, 


174  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

And  manifested  to  me  an  emotion 

That  far  outstripped  the  worth  of  that  small  service. 

Since  then  his  confidence  has  followed  me 

With  the  same  pace  that  mine  has  fled  from  him. 

QUESTENBERG. 

You  lead  your  son  into  the  secret  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

No! 

QUESTENBEEG. 

What !  and  not  warn  him  either,  what  bad  hands 
His  lot  has  placed  him  in  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I  must  perforce 

Leave  him  in  wardship  to  his  innocence. 
His  young  and  open  soul  —  dissimulation 
Is  foreign  to  its  habits  !     Ignorance 
Alone  can  keep  alive  the  cheerful  air, 
The  unembarrassed  sense  and  light  free  spirit, 
That  makes  the  duke  secure. 

QUESTENBERG  (anxiously). 

My  honored  friend  !  most  highly  do  I  deem 

Of  Colonel  Piccolomini  —  yet  — if 

Reflect  a  little 

OCTAVIO. 

I  must  venture  it. 
Hush !    There  he  comes  ! 

SCENE  IV. 
MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  QUESTENBERG. 

MAX.  • 

Ha!  there  he  is  himself.    Welcome,  my  father! 

\He  embraces  his  father.    As  he  turns  round,  he 
observes  QUESTENBERG,  and  draws  back  with  a 
cold  and  reserved  air. 
You  are  engaged,  I  see.    I'll  not  disturb  you. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  175 

OCTAVIO. 

How,  Max.  ?    Look  closer  at  this  visitor. 
Attention,  Max.,  an  old  friend  merits  —  reverence 
Belongs  of  right  to  the  envoy  of  your  sovereign. 

MAX.  (drily). 

Von  Questenberg !  —  welcome  —  if  you  bring  with  you 
Aught  good  to  our  headquarters. 

QUESTENBERG  (seizing  his  hand). 

Nay,  draw  not 

Your  hand  away,  Count  Piccolimini ! 
Not  on  my  own  account  alone  I  seized  it, 
And  nothing  common  will  I  say  therewith. 

[  Taking  the  hands  of  both. 
Octavio  —  Max.  Piccolomini ! 

0  savior  names,  and  full  of  happy  omen  ! 

Ne'er  will  her  prosperous  genius  turn  from  Austria, 
While  two  such  stars,  with  blessed  influences 
Beaming  protection,  shine  above  her  hosts. 

MAX. 

Heh  !  Noble  minister !     You  miss  your  part. 
You  come  not  here  to  act  a  panegyric. 
You're  sent,  I  know,  to  find  fault  and  to  scold  us  — 

1  must  not  be  beforehand  with  my  comrades. 

OCTAVIO  (tO  MAX.). 

He  comes  from  court,  where  people  are  not  quite 
So  well  contented  with  the  duke  as  here. 

MAX. 

What  now  have  they  contrived  to  find  out  in  him  ? 
That  he  alone  determines  for  himself 
What  he  himself  alone  doth  understand ! 
Well,  therein  he  does  right,  and  will  persist  in't 
Heaven  never  meant  him  for  that  passive  thing 
That  can  be  struck  and  hammered  out  to  suit 
Another's  taste  and  fancy.     He'll  not  dance 
To  every  tune  of  every  ministero 
It  goes  against  his  nature  —  he  can't  do  it, 
He  is  possessed  by  a  commanding  spirit, 
And  his,  too,  is  the  station  of  command. 


176  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

And  well  for  us  it  is  so !     There  exist 
Few  fit  to  rule  themselves,  but  few  that  use 
Their  intellects  intelligently.     Then 
Well  for  the  whole,  if  there  be  found  a  man 
Who  makes  himself  what  nature  destined  him, 
The  pause,  the  central  point,  to  thousand  thousands 
Stands  fixed  and  stately,  like  a  firm-built  column, 
Where  all  may  press  with  joy  and  confidence  — 
Now  such  a  man  is  Wallenstein  ;  and  if 
Another  better  suits  the  court  —  no  other 
But  such  a  one  as  he  can  serve  the  army. 

QUESTENBERG. 

The  army  ?    Doubtless ! 

MAX. 

What  delight  to  observe 

How  he  incites  and  strengthens  all  around  him, 
Infusing  life  and  vigor.     Every  power 
Seems  as  it  were  redoubled  by  his  presence : 
He  draws  forth  every  latent  energy, 
Showing  to  each  his  own  peculiar  talent, 
Yet  leaving  all  to  be  what  nature  made  them, 
And  watching  only  that  they  be  naught  else 
In  the  right  place  and  time ;  and  he  has  skill 
To  mould  the  powers  of  all  to  his  own  end. 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  who  denies  his  knowledge  of  mankind, 
And  skill  to  use  it  ?     Our  complaint  is  this :  — 
That  in  the  master  he  forgets  the  servant, 
As  if  he  claimed  by  birth  his  present  honors. 

MAX. 

And  does  he  not  so  ?    Is  he  not  endowed 
With  every  gift  and  power  to  carry  out 
The  high  intents  of  nature,  and  to  win 
A  ruler's  station  by  a  ruler's  talent? 

QUESTENBERG. 

So  then  it  seems  to  rest  with  him  alone 
What  is  the  worth  of  all  mankind  beside! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  177 


MAX. 

Uncommon  men  require  no  common  trust ; 
Give  him  but  scope  and  he  will  set  the  bounds. 

QUESTBNBER 

The  proof  is  yet  to  come. 

MAX. 

Thus  are  ye  ever. 

Ye  shrink  from  every  thing  of  depth,  and  think 
Yourselves  are  only  safe  while  ye're  in  shallows. 

OCTAVIO  (to  QUESTENBERG). 

'Twere  best  to  yield  with  a  good  grace,  my  friend; 
Of  him  there  you'll  make  nothing. 

MAX.  (continuing). 

In  their  fear 

They  call  a  spirit  up,  and  when  he  comes, 
Straight  their  flesh  creeps  and  quivers,  and  they  dread  him 
More  than  the  ills  for  which  they  called  him  up. 
The  uncommon,  the  sublime,  must  seem  and  be 
Like  things  of  every  day.     But  in  the  field, 
Ay,  there  the  Present  Being  makes  itself  felt. 
The  personal  must  command,  the  actual  eye 
Examine.     If  to  be  the  chieftain  asks 
All  that  is  great  in  nature,  let  it  be 
'Likewise  his  privilege  to  move  and  act 
In  all  the  correspondences  of  greatness. 
The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
He  must  invoke  and  question  —  not  dead  books, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers., 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son  !  of  those  old  narrow  ordinances 

Let  us  not  hold  too  lightly.     They  are  weights 

Of  priceless  value,  which  oppressed  mankind, 

Tied  to  the  volatile  will  of.  their  oppressors. 

For  always  formidable  was  the  League 

And  partnership  of  free  power  with  free  will. 

The  way  of  ancient  ordinance,  though  it  winds, 


178  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

Is  yet  no  devious  path.     Straight  forward  goes 
The  lightning's  path,  and  straight  the  fearful  path 
Of  the  cannon-ball.     Direct  it  flies,  and  rapid  ; 
Shattering  that   it   may  reach,  and   shattering  what   it 

reaches, 

My  son,  the  road  the  human  being  travels, 
That,  on  which  blessing  comes  and  goes,  doth  follow 
The  river's  course,  the  valley's  playful  windings, 
Curves  round  the  cornfield  and  the  hill  of  vines, 
Honoring  the  holy  bounds  of  property  ! 
And  thus  secure,  though  late,  leads  to  its  end. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Oh,  hear  your  father,  noble  youth  !  hear  him 
Who  is  at  once  the  hero  and  the  man. 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son,  the  nursling  of  the  camp  spoke  in  thee ! 
A  war  of  fifteen  years 
Hath  been  thy  education  and  thy  school. 
Peace  hast  thou  never  witnessed  !     There  exists 
An  higher  than  the  warrior's  excellence. 
In  war  itself  war  is  no  ultimate  purpose, 
The  vast  and  sudden  deeds  of  violence, 
Adventures  wild,  and  wonders  of  the  moment, 
These  are  not  they,  my  son,  that  generate 
The  calm,  the  blissful,  and  the  enduring  mighty! 
Lo  there !  the  soldier,  rapid  architect ! 
Builds  his  light  town  of  canvas,  and  at  once 
The  whole  scene  moves  and  bustles  momently. 
With  arms,  and  neighing  steeds,  and  mirth  and  quarrel 
The  motley  market  fills ;  the  roads,  the  streams 
Are  crowded  with  new  freights ;  trade  stirs  and  hurries, 
But  on  some  morrow  morn,  all  suddenly, 
The  tents  drop  down,  the  horde  renews  its  march. 
Dreary,  and  solitary  as  a  churchyard  ; 
The  meadow  and  down-trodden  seed-plot  lie, 
And  the  year's  harvest  is  gone  utterly. 

MAX. 

Oh,  let  the  emperor  make  peace,  my  father! 
Most  gladly  would  I  give  the  blood-stained  laurel 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  170 

For  the  first  violet  *  of  tlie  leafless  spring, 

Plucked  in  those  quiet  fields  where  I  have  journeyed. 

OCTAVIO. 

What  ails  thee  ?    What  so  moves  thee  all  at  once  ? 

MAX. 

Peace  have  I  ne'er  beheld  ?    I  have  beheld  it. 

From  thence  am  I  come  hither :  oh,  that  sight, 

It  glimmers  still  before  me,  like  some  landscape 

Left  in  the  distance,  —  some  delicious  landscape ! 

My  road  conducted  me  through  countries  where 

The  war  has  not  yet  reached.     Life,  life,  my  father  — 

My  venerable  father,  life  has  charms 

Which  we  have  never  experienced.     We  have  been 

But  voyaging  along  its  barren  coasts, 

Like  some  poor  ever-roaming  horde  of  pirates, 

That,  crowded  in  the  rank  and  narrow  ship, 

House  on  the  wild  sea  with  wild  usages, 

Nor  know  aught  of  the  mainland,  but  the  bays 

Where  safeliest  they  may  venture  a  thieves'  landing. 

Whate'er  in  the  inland  dales  the  land  conceals 

Of  fair  and  exquisite,  oh,  nothing,  nothing, 

Do  we  behold  of  that  in  our  rude  voyage. 

OCTAVIO  (attentive,  with  an  appearance  of  uneasiness) 
And  so  your  journey  has  revealed  this  to  you? 

MAX. 

'Twas  the  first  leisure  of  my  life.     O  tell  me, 
What  is  the  meed  and  purpose  of  the  toil, 
The  painful  toil  which  robbed  me  of  my  youth, 
Left  me  a  heart  unsouled  and  solitary, 
A  spirit  uninformed,  unornamented  ! 
For  the  camp's  stir,  and  crowd,  and  ceaseless  larum, 
The  neighing  war-horse,  the  air-shattering  trumpet, 
The  unvaried,  still  returning  hour  of  duty, 
Word  of  command,  and  exercise  of  arms  — 

*  In  the  original, 

"  Den  blut'gen  Lorbeer  geb'ich  hiti  mit  Freuden 
Fiirs  erste  Veilchen,  das  der  Marz  uns  bringt, 
Das  diirftige  Pfand  der  neuverjiingten  Erde." 


180  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

There's  nothing  here,  there's  nothing  in  all  this, 

To  satisfy  the  heart,  the  gasping  heart ! 

Mere  bustling  nothingness,  where  the  soul  is  not  — 

This  cannot  be  the  sole  felicity, 

These  cannot  be  man's  best  and  only  pleasures ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Much  hast  thou  learnt,  my  son,  in  this  short  journey 

MAX. 

Oh  day,  thrice  lovely !  when  at  length  the  soldier 

Returns  home  into  life  ;  when  he  becomes 

A  fellow-man  among  his  fellow-men. 

The  colors  are  unfurled,  the  cavalcade 

Mashals,  and  now  the  buzz  is  hushed,  and  hark ! 

Now  the  soft  peace-march  beats,  home,  brothers,  home .' 

The  caps  and  helmet  are  all  garlanded 

With  green  boughs,  the  last  plundering  of  the  fields. 

The  city  gates  fly  open  of  themselves, 

They  need  no  longer  the  petard  to  tear  them. 

The  ramparts  are  all  filled  with  men  and  women, 

With  peaceful  men  and  women,  that  send  onwards 

Kisses  and  welcomings  upon  the  air, 

Which  they  make  breezy  with  affectionate  gestures. 

From  all  the  towers  rings  out  the  merry  peal, 

The  joyous  vespers  of  a  bloody  day. 

0  happy  man,  O  fortunate !  for  whom 

The  well-known  door,  the  faithful  arms  are  open, 
The  faithful  tender  arms  with  mute  embracing. 

QUESTENBERG  (apparently  much  affected). 

O  that  you  should  speak 
Of  such  a  distant,  distant  time,  and  not 
Of  the  to-rnorrow,  not  of  this  to-day. 

MAX.  (turning  round  to  him  quick  and  vehement). 

Where  lies  the  fault  but  on  you  in  Vienna ! 

1  will  deal  openly  with  you,  Questenberg. 
Just  now,  as  first  I  saw  you  standing  here 
(I'll  own  it  to  you  freely),  indignation 
Crowded  and  pressed  my  inmost  soul  together. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  181 

Tis  ye  that  hinder  peace,  ye!  —  and  the  warrior, 

It  is  the  warrior  that  must  force  it  from  you. 

Ye  fret  the  general's  life  out,  blacken  him, 

Hold  him  up  as  a  rebel,  and  heaven  knows 

What  else  still  worse,  because  he  spares  the  Saxons, 

And  tries  to  awaken  confidence  in  the  enemy ; 

Which  yet's  the  only  way  to  peace :  for  if 

War  intermit  not  during  war,  how  then 

And  whence  can  peace  come?     Your  own  plagues  fall 

on  you  ! 

Even  as  I  love  what's  virtuous,  hate  I  you. 
And  here  I  make  this  vow,  here  pledge  myself, 
My  blood  shall  spurt  out  for  this  Wallenstein, 
And  my  heart  drain  off,  drop  by  drop,  ere  ye 
Shall  revel  and  dance  jubilee  o'er  his  ruin.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. 

QUESTENBERG,  OCTAVIO  PlCCOLOMINI. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Alas  !  alas!  and  stands  it  so? 

[  Then  in  pressing  and  impatient  tones. 
What  friend  !  and  do  we  let  him  go  away 
In  this  delusion  —  let  him  go  away  ? 
Not  call  him  back  immediately,  not  open 
His  eyes  upon  the  spot  ? 

OCTAVIO  (recovering  himself  out  of  a  deep  study). 
He  has  now  opened  mine, 
And  I  see  more  than  pleases  me. 

QUESTENBERG. 

What  is  it  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

Curse  on  this  journey  ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  why  so  ?    What  is  it? 

OCTAVIO. 

Come,  come  along,  friend  !     I  must  follow  up 
The  ominous  track  immediately.     Mine  eyes 
Are  opened  now,  and  I  must  use  them.     Come! 

[Draws  QUESTENBERG  on  with  him. 


182  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

QUESTENBERG. 

What  now  ?     Where  go  you  then  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

To  her  herself. 

QUESTENBERG. 

To 

OCTAVIO  (interrupting  him  and  correcting  himself). 

To  the  duke.     Come,  let  us  go 'Tis  done,  'tis  done, 

I  see  the  net  that  is  thrown  over  him. 
Oh !  he  returns  not  to  me  as  he  went. 

QUESTENBEKG. 

Nay,  but  explain  yourself. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  that  I  should  not 

Foresee  it,  not  prevent  this  journey!  Wherefore 
Did  I  keep  it  from  him  ?  You  were  in  the  right. 
I  should  have  warned  him.  Now  it  is  too  late. 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  wharfs  too  late  ?    Bethink  yourself,  my  friend, 
That  you  aie  talking  absolute  riddles  to  me. 

OCTAVIO  (more  collected). 

Come !  to  the  duke's.  'Tis  close  upon  the  hour 
Which  he  appointed  you  for  audience.  Come ! 
A  curse,  a  threefold  curse,  upon  this  journey! 

[He  leads  QUESTENBERG  off. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

Changes  to  a  spacious  chamber  in  the  house  of  the  Duke 
of  Friedland.  Servants  employed  in  putting  the  tables 
and  chairs  in  order.  During  this  enters  SENT,  like  an 
old  Italian  doctor,  in  black,  and  clothed  someichat  fan- 
tastically. He  carries  a  white  staff,  with  which  he 
marks  out  the  quarters  of  the  heavens. 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

Come  —  to  it,  lads,  to  it !  Make  an  end  of  it.  I  hear  the 
sentry  call  out,  "  Stand  to  your  arms ! "  They  will  be 
here  in  a  minute. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  183 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

Why  were  we  not  told  before  that  the  audience  would 
be  held  here?  Nothing  prepared  —  no  orders  —  no  in- 
structions. 

THIRD    SERVANT. 

Ay,  and  why  was  the  balcony  chamber  countermanded, 
that  with  the  great  worked  carpet  ?  There  one  can  look 
about  one. 

FIRST   SERVANT. 

Nay,  that  you  must  ask  the  mathematician  there.  He 
says  it  is  an  unlucky  chamber. 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

Poh !  stuff  and  nonsense  !  that's  what  I  call  a  hum.  A 
chamber  is  a  chamber ;  what  much  can  the  place  signify 
in  the  affair? 

SENI  (with  gravity). 

My  son,  there's  nothing  insignificant, 
Nothing!    But  yet  in  every  earthly  thing, 
First  and  most  principal  is  place  and  time. 

FIRST  SERVANT  (to  the  second). 

Say  nothing  to  him,  Nat.  The  duke  himself  must  let 
him  have  his  own  will. 

SENI  (counts  the  chairs,  half  in  a  loud,  half  in  a  low 
voice,  till  he  comes  to  eleven,  which  he  repeats). 

Eleven  !  an  evil  number !     Set  twelve  chairs. 

Twelve !  twelve  signs  hath  the  zodiac :  five  and  seven, 

The  holy  numbers,  include  themselves  in  twelve. 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

And  what  may  you  have  to  object  against  eleven  ?  I 
should  like  to  know  that  now. 

SENI. 

Eleven  is  transgression  ;  eleven  oversteps 
The  ten  commandments. 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

That's  good?  and  why  do  you  call  five  a  holy  number? 


184  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

SENT. 

Five  is  the  soul  of  man :  for  even  as  man 
Is  mingled  up  of  good  and  evil,  so 
The  five  is  the  first  number  that's  made  up 
Of  even  and  odd. 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

The  foolish  old  coxcomb ! 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

Ay !  let  him  alone  though.     I  like  to  hear  him ;  there 
is  more  in  his  words  than  can  be  seen  at  first  sight. 

THIRD    SERVANT. 

Off,  they  come. 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

There !     Out  at  the  side-door. 

\_Theyhurryoff.  SENI/O^OWJS  slowly.  A  page 
brings  the  staff  of  command  on  a  red  cushion, 
and  places  it  on  the  table,  near  the  duke's 
chair.  They  are  announced  from  without^ 
and  the  wings  of  the  door  fly  open. 

SCENE  II. 
WALLENSTEIN,  DUCHESS. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  went,  then,  through  Vienna,  were  presented 
To  the  Queen  of  Hungary  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Yes  ;  and  to  the  empress,  too, 
And  by  both  majesties  were  we  admitted 
To  kiss  the  hand. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  how  was  it  received, 
That  I  had  sent  for  wife  and  daughter  hither 
To  the  camp,  in  winter-time  ? 
DUCHESS. 

I  did  even  that 

Which  you  commissioned  me  to  do.     I  told  them 
You  had  determined  on  our  daughter's  marriage, 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  185 

And  wished,  ere  yet  you  went  into  the  field, 
To  show  the  elected  husband  his  betrothed. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  did  they  guess  the  choice  which  I  had  made  ? 

DUCHESS. 

They  only  hoped  and  wished  it  may  have  fallen 
Upon  no  foreign  nor  yet  Lutheran  noble. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  you  —  what  do  you  wish,  Elizabeth? 

DUCHESS. 

Your  will,  you  know,  was  always  mine. 
WALLENSTEIN  (after  a  pause). 

Well,  then,— 

And  in  all  else,  of  what  kind  and  complexion 
Was  your  reception  at  the  court  ? 

[  The  DUCHESS  casts  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and 

remains  silent. 
Hide  nothing  from  me.     How  were  you  received  ? 

DUCHESS. 

O  !  my  dear  lord,  all  is  not  what  it  was. 
A  canker-worm,  my  lord,  a  canker-worm 
Has  stolen  into  the  bud. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay  !  is  it  so  ? 
What,  they  were  lax?  they  failed  of  the  old  respect? 

DUCHESS. 

Not  of  respect.     No  honors  were  omitted, 
No  outward  courtesy ;  but  in  the  place 
Of  condescending,  confidential  kindness, 
Familiar  and  endearing,  there  were  given  me 
Only  these  honors  and  that  solemn  courtesy. 
Ah  !  and  the  tenderness  which  was  put  on, 
It  was  the  guise  of  pity,  not  of  favor. 
No !  Albrecht's  wife,  Duke  Albrecht's  princely  wife, 
Count  Harrach's  noble  daughter,  should  not  so  — 
Not  wholly  so  should  she  have  been  received. 


186  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  yes ;  they  have  taken  offence.    My  latest  conduct 
They  railed  at  it,  no  doubt. 

DUCHESS. 

O  that  they  had  J 

I  have  been  long  accustomed  to  defend  you, 
To  heal  and  pacify  distempered  spirits. 
No ;  no  one  railed  at  you.     They  wrapped  them  up, 
O  Heaven  !  in  such  oppressive,  solemn  silence  ! 
Here  is  no  every-day  misunderstanding, 
No  transient  pique,  no  cloud  that  passes  over; 
Something  most  luckless,  most  unhealable, 
Has  taken  place.     The  Queen  of  Hungary 
Used  formerly  to  call  me  her  dear  aunt, 
And  ever  at  departure  to  embrace  me 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Now  she  omitted  it  ? 
DUCHESS  (wiping  away  her  tears  after  a  pause). 

She  did  embrace  me, 
But  then  first  when  I  had  already  taken 
My  formal  leave,  and  when  the  door  already 
Had  closed  upon  me,  then  did  she  come  out 
In  haste,  as  she  had  suddenly  bethought  herself, 
And  pressed  me  to  her  bosom,  more  with  anguish 
Than  tenderness. 

WALLENSTEIN  (seizes  her  hand  soothingly). 

Nay,  now  collect  yourself. 
And  what  of  Eggenberg  and  Lichtensteiii, 
And  of  our  other  friends  there  ? 

DUCHESS  (shaking  her  head). 
I  saw  none. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  ambassador  from  Spain,  who  once  was  wont 
To  plead  so  warmly  for  me  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Silent,  silent ! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  187 

WALLENSTEIN. 

These  suns  then  are  eclipsed  for  us.     Henceforward 
Must  we  roll  on,  our  own  fire,  our  own  light. 

DUCHESS. 

And  were  it  —  were  it,  ray  dear  lord,  in  that 
Which  moved  about  the  court  in  buzz  and  whisper, 
But  in  the  country  let  itself  be  heard 
Aloud  —  in  that  which  Father  Laraormain 
In  sundry  hints  and 

WALLENSTEIN  (eagerly). 

Lanormain  !  what  said  he  ? 

DUCHESS. 

That  you're  accused  of  having  daringly 

O'erstepped  the  powers  intrusted  to  you,  charged 

With  traitorous  contempt  of  the  emperor 

And  his  supreme  behests.     The  proud  Bavarian, 

He  and  the  Spaniards  stand  up  your  accusers  — 

That  there's  a  storm  collecting  over  you 

Of  far  more  fearful  menace  than  the  former  one 

Which  whirled  you  headlong  down  at  Regensburg. 

And  people  talk,  said  he,  of Ah  ! 

[/Stifling  extreme  emotion. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Proceed ! 

DUCHESS. 

I  cannot  utter  it ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Proceed ! 

DUCHESS. 

They  talk 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well! 

DUCHESS. 

Of  a  second  —  (catches  her  voice  and  hesitates.) 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Second  — — 


188  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

DUCHESS. 

Most  disgraceful 
Dismission. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Talk  they? 

[Strides  across  the  chamber  in  vehement  agitation. 
O !  they  force,  they  thrust  me 
With  violence,  against  my  own  will,  onward ! 

DUCHESS  (presses  near  to  him  in  entreaty). 
Oh !  if  there  yet  be  time,  my  husband  !  if 
By  giving  way  and  by  submission,  this 
Can  be  averted —  my  dear  lord,  give  way  ! 
Win  down  your  proud  heart  to  it !      Tell  the  heart, 
It  is  your  sovereign  lord,  your  emperor, 
Before  whom  you  retreat.     Oh  !   let  no  longer 
Low  trickling  malice  blacken  your  good  meaning 
With  abhorred  venomous  glosses.     Stand  you  up 
Shielded  and  helmed  and  weaponed  with  the  truth, 
And  drive  before  you  into  uttermost  shame 
These  slanderous  liars  !     Few  firm  friends  have  we  — 
You  know  it !     The  swift  growth  of  our  good  fortune, 
It  hath  but  set  us  up  a  mark  for  hatred. 
What  are  we,  if  the  sovereign's  grace  and  favor 
Stand  not  before  us ! 

SCENE   III. 

Enter  the  Countess  TERZKY,  leading  in   her  hand  the 

Princess  THEKLA,  richly  adorned  with  brilliants. 

COUNTESS,  THEKLA,  WALLENSTEIN,  DUCHESS. 

COUNTESS. 
How,  sister  !     What,  already  upon  business  ? 

[  Observing  the  countenance  of  the  DUCHESS. 
And  business  of  no  pleasing  kind  I  see, 
Ere  he  has  gladdened  at  his  child.     The  first 
Moment  belongs  to  joy.     Here,  Friedland  !   father! 
This  is  thy  daughter. 

[THEKLA  approaches  with  a  shy  and  timid  air,  and 
bends  herself  as  about  to  kiss  his  hand.  He  re- 
ceives her  in  his  arms,  and  remains  standing  for 
some  time  lost  in  the  feeling  of  her  presence. 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  189 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes !  pure  and  lovely  hath  hope  risen  on  me, 
I  take  her  as  the  pledge  of  greater  fortune. 

DUCHESS. 

'Twas  but  a  little  child  when  you  departed 
To  raise  up  that  great  army  for  the  emperor : 
And  after,  at  the  close  of  the  campaign, 
When  you  returned  home  out  of  Pomerania, 
Your  daughter  was  already  in  the  convent, 
Wherein  she  has  remained  till  now. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  while 

We  in  the  field  here  gave  our  cares  and  toils 
To  make  her  great,  and  fight  her  a  free  way 
To  the  loftiest  earthly  good  ;  lo  !  mother  Nature 
Within  the  peaceful,  silent  convent  walls, 
Has  done  her  part,  and  out  of  her  free  grace 
Hath  she  bestowed  on  the  beloved  child 
The  god-like  ;  and  now  leads  her  thus  adorned 
To  meet  her  splendid  fortune,  and  my  hope. 

DUCHESS  (to  THEKLA). 

Thou  wouldst  not  now  have  recognized  thy  father, 
Wouldst  thou,  my  child  ?  She  counted  scarce  eight  years 
When  last  she  saw  your  face. 

THEKLA. 

O  yes,  yes,  mother ! 

At  the  first  glance !     My  father  has  not  altered. 
The  form  that  stands  before  me  falsifies 
No  feature  of  the  image  that  hath  lived 
So  long  within  me ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  voice  of  my  child  ! 

[  Then  after  a  pause. 
I  was  indignant  at  my  destiny, 
That  it  denied  me  a  man-child,  to  be 
Heir  of  my  name  and  of  my  prosperous  fortune, 
And  re-illume  my  soon-extinguished  being 
In  a  proud  line  of  princes. 


190  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

I  wronged  my  destiny.     Here  upon  this  head, 
So  lovely  in  its  maiden  bloom,  will  I 
Let  fall  the  garland  of  a  life  of  war, 
Nor  deem  it  lost,  if  only  I  can  wreath  it, 
Transmuted  to  a  regal  ornament, 
Around  these  beauteous  brows. 

\He  clasps  her  in  his  arms  as  PICCOLOMINI  enters. 

SCENE   IV. 

Enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  and  some  time  after  COUNT 
TERZKY,  the  others  remaining  as  before. 

COUNTESS. 
There  comes  the  Paladin  who  protected  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max. !     Welcome,  ever  welcome  !     Always  wert  thou 
The  morning  star  of  my  best  joys ! 

MAX. 

My  general 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Till  now  it  was  the  emperor  who  rewarded  thee, 
I  but  the  instrument.     This  day  thou  hast  bound 
The  father  to  thee,  Max. !  the  fortunate  father, 
And  this  debt  Friedland's  self  must  pay. 

MAX. 

My  prince ! 

You  made  no  common  hurry  to  transfer  it. 
I  come  with  shame :  yea,  not  without  a  pang ! 
For  scarce  have  I  arrived  here,  scarce  delivered 
The  mother  and  the  daughter  to  your  arms, 
But  there  is  brought  to  me  from  your  equerry  * 
A  splendid  richly-plated  hunting  dress 
So  to  remunerate  me  for  my  troubles  — 

*A  reviewer  in  the  Literary  Gazette  observes  that,  in  these  lines,  Mr 
Coleridge  has  misapprehended  the  meaning  of  the  word  "  zug  "  a  team,  trans- 
lating it  as  "  anzug,  a  suit  of  clothes.  The  following  version,  as  a  substi- 
tute, I  propose  :  — 

When  from  your  stables  there  is  brought  to  me 
A  team  of  four  most  richly  harnessed  horses. 

The  term,  however,  is  "  jagd-zug."  which  may  mean  a  "  hunting  equipage," 
or  a  "  hunting  stud  ;  "  although  Hilpert  gives  only  "  a  team  of  tour  horses." 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  191 

Yes,  yes,  remunerate  me,  — since  a  trouble 
It  must  be,  a  mere  office,  not  a  favor 
Which  I  leaped  forward  to  receive,  and  which 
I  came  with  grateful  heart  to  thank  you  for. 
No  !  'twas  not  so  intended,  that  my  business 
Should  be  my  highest  best  good  fortune  ! 

[TERZKY  enters,  and  delivers  letters  to  the  DUKE, 
which  he  breaks  open  hurriedly. 

COUNTESS  (tO  MAX.). 

Remunerate  your  trouble  !     For  his  joy 

He  makes  you  recompense.     'Tis  not  unfitting 

For  you,  Count  Piccolornini,  to  feel 

So  tenderly  —  my  brother  it  beseems 

To  show  himself  forever  great  and  princely. 

THEKLA. 

Then  I  too  must  have  scruples  of  his  love  : 
For  his  munificent  hands  did  ornament  me 
Ere  yet  the  father's  heart  had  spoken  to  me. 

MAX 

Yes  ;  'tis  his  nature  ever  to  be  giving 
And  making  happy. 

\He  grasps  the  hand  of  the  DUCHESS  with  stitt 
increasing  warmth. 

How  my  heart  pours  out 
Its  all  of  thanks  to  him  !     O  !  how  I  seem 
To  utter  all  things  in  the  dear  name  —  Friedland. 
While  I  shall  live,  so  long  will  I  remain 
The  captive  of  this  name  :  in  it  shall  bloom 
My  every  fortune,  every  lovely  hope. 
Inextricably  as  in  some  magic  ring 
In  this  name  hath  my  destiny  charm-bound  me  ! 

COUNTESS  (who  during  this  time  has  been  anxiously  watch- 
ing the  DUKE,  and  remarks  that  he  is  lost  in  thought 
over  the  letters). 

My  brother  wishes  us  to  leave  him.    Come. 


192  THE   WCCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN  (turns  himself  round  quick,  collects  him  self, 
and  speaks  with  cheerfulness  to  the  DUCHESS). 
Once  more  I  bid  thee  welcome  to  the  camp, 
Thou  art  the  hostess  of  this  court.     You,  Max., 
Will  now  again  administer  your  old  office, 
While  we  perform  the  sovereign's  business  here. 
[MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  offers  the  DUCHESS  his  arm  ;  the 
COUNTESS  accompanies  the  PRINCESS. 

TERZKY  (calling  after  him). 
Max.,  we  depend  on  seeing  you  at  the  meeting. 

SCENE  V. 

WALLENSTEIN,  COUNT  TERZKY. 
WALLENSTEIN  (in  deep  thought,  to  himself). 

She  has  seen  all  things  as  they  are  —  it  is  so, 
And  squares  completely  with  my  other  notices, 
They  have  determined  finally  in  Vienna, 
Have  given  me  my  successor  already  ; 
It  is  the  King  of  Hungary,  Ferdinand, 
The  emperor's  delicate  son  !  he's  now  their  savior, 
He's  the  new  star  that's  rising  now !     Of  us 
They  think  themselves  already  fairly  rid, 
And  as  we  were  deceased,  the  heir  already 
Is  entering  on  possession  —  Therefore  —  despatch  ! 
[As  he  tiirns  round  he  observes  TERZKY,  and 

gives  him  a  letter. 

Count  Altringer  will  have  himself  excused, 
And  Gallas  too  —  I  like  not  this! 

TERZKY. 

And  if 

Thou  loiterest  longer,  all  will  fall  away, 
One  following  the  other. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Altringer 

Is  master  of  the  Tyrol  passes.     I  must  forthwith 
Send  some  one  to  him,  that  he  let  not  in 
The  Spaniards  on  me  from  the  Milanese. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  193 

-Well,  and  the  old  Sesin,  that  ancient  trader 


In  contraband  negotiations,  he 

Has  shown  himself  again  of  late.     What  brings  he 

From  the  Count  Thur  ? 

TEKZKY. 

The  count  communicates 
He  has  found  out  the  Swedish  chancellor 
At  Halberstadt,  where  the  convention's  held, 
Who  says,  you've  tired  him  out,  and  that  he'll  have 
No  further  dealings  with  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  so  ? 

TEKZKY. 

He  says,  you  are  never  in  earnest  in  your  speeches ; 
That  you  decoy  the  Swedes  —  to  make  fools  of  them; 
Will  league  yourself  with  Saxony  against  them, 
And  at  last  make  yourself  a  riddance  of  them 
With  a  paltry  sum  of  money. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

So  then,  doubtless, 

Yes,  doubtless,  this  same  modest  Swede  expects 
That  I  shall  yield  him  some  fair  German  tract 
For  his  prey  and  booty,  that  ourselves  at  last 
On  our  own  soil  and  native  territory 
May  be  no  longer  our  own  lords  and  masters ! 
An  excellent  scheme  !     No,  no  !     They  must  be  off, 
Off,  off  !  away !  we  want  no  such  neighbors. 

TERZKY. 

Nay,  yield  them  up  that  dot,  that  speck  of  land  — 
It  goes  not  from  your  portion.     If  you  win 
The  game,  what  matters  it  to  you  who  pays  it? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Off  with  them,  off !    Thou  understand'st  not  this. 

Never  shall  it  be  said  of  me,  I  parcelled 

My  native  land  away,  dismembered  Germany, 

Betrayed  it  to  a  foreigner,  in  order 

To  come  with  stealthy  tread,  and  filch  away 


194  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

My  own  share  of  the  plunder  — Never!  never! 
Xo  foreign  power  shall  strike  root  in  the  empire, 
And  least  of  all  these  Goths  i  these  hungry  wolves ! 
Who  send  such  envious,  hot,  and  greedy  glances 
Toward  the  rich  blessings  of  our  German  lands ! 
I'll  have  their  aid  to  cast  and  draw  my  nets, 
But  not  a  single  fish  of  all  the  draught 
Shall  they  come  in  for. 

TERZKY. 

You  will  deal,  however, 

More  fairly  with  the  Saxons?  they  lose  patience 
While  you  shift  round  and  make  so  many  curves. 
Say,  to  what  purpose  all  these  masks?    Your  friends 
Are  plunged  in  doubts,  baffled,  and  led  astray  in  you. 
There's  Oxenstiern,  there's  Arnheim  —  neither  knowa 
What  he  should  think  of  your  procrastinations, 
And  in  the  end  I  prove  the  liar ;  all 
Passes  through  me.     I've  not  even  your  handwriting. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  never  give  handwriting ;  and  thou  knowest  it. 

TERZKY. 

But  how  can  it  be  known  that  you  are  in  earnest, 

If  the  act  follows  not  upon  the  word  ? 

You  must  yourself  acknowledge,  that  in  all 

Your  intercourses  hitherto  with  the  enemy, 

You  might  have  done  with  safety  all  you  have  done. 

Had  you  meant  nothing  further  than  to  gull  him 

For  the  emperor's  service. 

WALLEXSTELN  (after  a  pause,  during  which  he  looks 

narrowly  on  TERZKY). 
And  from  whence  dost  thou  know 
That  I'm  not  gulling  him  for  the  emperor's  service? 
Whence  knowest  thou  that  I'm  not  gulling  all  of  you? 
Dost  thou  know  me  so  well?     When  made  I  thee 
The  intendant  of  my  secret  purposes  ? 
I  am  not  conscious  that  I  ever  opened 
My  inmost  thoughts  to  thee.     The  emperor,  it  is  true, 
Hath  dealt  with  me  amiss;  and  if  I  would 
I  could  repay  him  with  usurious  interest 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  195 

For  the  evil  he  hath  done  me.     It  delights  me 
To  know  my  power ;  but  whether  I  shall  use  it, 
Of  that  I  should  have  thought  that  thou  couldst  speak 
No  wiser  than  thy  fellows. 

TERZKY. 

So  hast  thou  always  played  thy  game  with  us. 

[Enter  ILLO. 

SCENE  VI. 
ILLO,  WALLENSTEIN,  TERZKY. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
How  stand  affairs  without  ?    Are  they  prepared  ? 

ILLO. 

You'll  find  them  in  the  very  mood  you  wish. 
They  know  about  the  emperor's  requisition, 
And  are  tumultuous. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  hath  Isolani 
Declared  himself? 

ILLO. 

He's  yours,  both  soul  and  body, 
Since  you  built  up  again  his  faro-bank. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  which  way  doth  Kolatto  bend  ?    Hast  thou 
Made  sure  of  Tiefenbach  and  Deodati? 

ILLO. 
What  Piccolomini  does  that  they  do  too. 

WALLENSTELN. 

You  mean,  then,  I  may  venture  somewhat  with  them  ? 

ILLO. 
If  you  are  assured  of  the  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not  more  assured  of  mine  own  self. 


196  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 


TERZKY. 

And  yet 

I  would  you  trusted  not  so  much  to  Octavio, 
The  fox ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  teachest  me  to  know  my  man  ? 
Sixteen  campaigns  I  have  made  with  that  old  warrior. 
Besides,  I  have  his  horoscope ; 
We  both  are  born  beneath  like  stars  —  in  short, 

[  With  an  air  of  mystery. 
To  this  belongs  its  own  peculiar  aspect, 
If  therefore  thou  canst  warrant  me  the  rest 

ILLO. 

There  is  among  them  all  but  this  one  voice, 
You  must  not  lay  down  the  command.     I  hear 
They  mean  to  send  a  deputation  to  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

If  I'm  in  aught  to  bind  myself  to  them 
They  too  must  bind  themselves  to  me. 

ILLO. 

Of  course. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Their  words  of  honor  they  must  give,  their  oaths, 
Give  them  in  writing  to  me,  promising 
Devotion  to  my  service  unconditional. 

ILLO. 

Why  not? 

TERZKY. 

Devotion  unconditional  ? 
The  exception  of  their  duties  towards  Austria 
They'll  always  place  among  the  premises. 
With  this  reserve 

WALLENSTEIN  (shaking  his  head). 

All  unconditional ; 
No  premises,  no  reserves. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  197 

ILLO. 

A  thought  has  struck  me. 
Does  not  Count  Terzky  give  us  a  set  banquet 
This  evening  ? 

TERZKY. 

Yes ;  and  all  the  generals 
Have  been  invited. 

ILLO  (to  WALLENSTEIN). 

Say,  will  you  here  fully 
Commission  me  to  use  my  own  discretion  ? 
I'll  gain  for  you  the  generals'  word  of  honor, 
Even  as  you  wish. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Gain  me  their  signatures  ! 
How  you  come  by  them  that  is  your  concern. 

ILLO. 

And  if  I  bring  it  to  you  in  black  on  white, 
That  all  the  leaders  who  are  present  here 
Give  themselves  up  to  you,  without  condition ; 
Say,  will  you  then  — then  will  you  show  yourself 
In  earnest,  and  with  some  decisive  action 
Try  your  fortune. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Get  but  the  signatures  1 

ILLO. 

Think  what  thou  dost,  thou  canst  not  execute 
The  emperor's  orders,  nor  reduce  thine  army, 
Nor  send  the  regiments  to  the  Spaniards'  aid, 
Unless  thou  wouldst  resign  thy  power  forever. 
Think  on  the  other  hand  — thou  canst  not  spurn 
The  emperor's  high  commands  and  solemn  orders, 
Nor  longer  temporize,  nor  seek  evasion, 
Wouldst  thou  avoid  a  rupture  with  the  court. 
Resolve  then  !     Wilt  thou  now  by  one  bold  act 
Anticipate  their  ends,  or,  doubting  still, 
Await  the  extremity? 


198  THE   PICCOLOMiNI. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There's  time  before 
The  extremity  arrives. 

ILLO. 

Seize,  seize  the  hour, 

Ere  it  slips  from  you.     Seldom  comes  the  moment 
In  life,  which  is  indeed  sublime  and  weighty. 
To  make  a  great  decision  possible, 
O  !  many  things,  all  transient  and  all  rapid, 
Must  meet  at  once  :  and,  haply,  they  thus  met 
May  by  that  confluence  be  enforced  to  pause 
Time  long-enough  for  wisdom,  though  too  short, 
Far,  far  too  short  a  time  for  doubt  and  scruple ! 
This  is  that  moment.     See,  our  army  chieftains, 
Our  best,  our  noblest,  are  assembled  round  you, 
Their  king-like  leader  !     On  your  nod  they  wait. 
The  single  threads,  which  here  your  prosperous  fortune 
Hath  woven  together  in  one  potent  web 
Instinct  with  destiny,  O  !  let  them  not 
Unravel  of  themselves.     If  you  permit 
These  chiefs  to  separate,  so  unanimous 
Bring  you  them  not  a  second  time  together. 
'Tis  the  high  tide  that  heaves  the  stranded  ship, 
And  every  individual's  spirit  waxes 
In  the  great  stream  of  multitudes.     Behold 
They  are  still  here,  here  still !     But  soon  the  war 
Bursts  them  once  more  asunder,  and  in  small 
Particular  anxieties  and  interests 
Scatters  their  spirit,  and  the  sympathy 
Of  each  man  with  the  whole.     He  who  to-day 
Forgets  himself,  forced  onward  with  the  stream, 
Will  become  sober,  seeing  but  himself. 
Feel  only  his  own  weakness,  and  with  speed 
Will  face  about,  and  march  on  in  the  old 
High  road  of  duty,  the  old  broad-trodden  road, 
And  seek  but  to  make  shelter  in  good  plight. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  time  is  not  yet  come. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  199 

TERZKY. 

So  you  say  always. 
But  when  will  it  be  time  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

When  I  shall  say  it. 
ILLO. 

You'll  wait  upon  the  stars,  and  on  their  hours, 
Till  the  earthly  hour  escapes  you.     Oh,  believe  me, 
In  your  own  bosom  are  your  destiny's  stars. 
Confidence  in  yourself,  prompt  resolution, 
This  is  your  Venus  !  and  the  sole  malignant, 
The  only  one  that  harmeth  you  is  doubt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  speakest  as  thou  understandest.     How  oft 
And  many  a  time  I've  told  thee  Jupiter, 
That  lustrous  god,  was  setting  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  visual  power  subdues  no  mysteries ; 
Mole-eyed  thou  mayest  but  burrow  in  the  earth, 
Blind  as  the  subterrestrial,  who  with  wan 
Lead-colored  shine  lighted  thee  into  life. 
The  common,  the  terrestrial,  thou  mayest  see, 
With  serviceable  cunning  knit  together, 
The  nearest  with  the  nearest ;  and  therein 
I  trust  thee  and  believe  thee  !  but  whate'er 
Full  of  mysterious  import  Nature  weaves, 
And  fashions  in  the  depths  —  the  spirit's  ladder, 
That  from  this  gross  and  visible  world  of  dust, 
Even  to  the  starry  world,  with  thousand  rounds, 
Builds  itself  up  ;  on  which  the  unseen  powers 
Move  up  and  down  on  heavenly  ministries  — 
The  circles  in  the  circles,  that  approach 
The  central  sun  with  ever-narrowing  orbit  — 
These  see  the  glance  alone,  the  unsealed  eye, 
Of  Jupiter's  glad  children  born  in  lustre. 

\_He  walks  across  the  chamber,  then  returns^  and 

standing  still,  proceeds. 

The  heavenly  constellations  make  not  merely 
The  day  and  nights,  summer  and  spring,  not  merely 
Signify  to  the  husbandman  the  seasons 


200  THE   FICCOLOMINI. 

Of  sowing  and  of  harvest.     Human  action, 
That  is  the  seed,  too,  of  contingencies, 
Strewed  on  the  dark  land  of  futurity 
In  hopes  to  reconcile  the  powers  of  fate 
Whence  it  behoves  us  to  seek  out  the  seed-time, 
To  watch  the  stars,  select  their  proper  hours, 
And  trace  with  searching  eye  the  heavenly  houses, 
Whether  the  enemy  of  growth  and  thriving 
Hide  himself  not,  malignant,  in  his  corner. 
Therefore  permit  me  my  own  time.    Meanwhile 
Do  you  your  part.     As  yet  I  cannot  say 
What  I  shall  do  —  only,  give  way  I  will  not, 
Depose  me,  too,  they  shall  not.     On  these  points 
You  may  rely. 

PAGE  (entering). 

My  lords,  the  generals. 

•WALLENSTEDf. 

Let  them  come  in. 

TERZKY. 

Shall  all  the  chiefs  be  present  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Twere  needless.     Both  the  Piccolomini 
Maradas,  Butler,  Forgoetsch,  Deodati, 
Karaffa,  Isolani  —  these  may  come. 

[TERZKY  goes  out  with  the  PAGE. 

WALLENSTEIN    (to   ILLO). 

Hast  thou  taken  heed  that  Questenberg  was  watched  ? 
Had  he  no  means  of  secret  intercourse  ? 

ILLO. 

I  have  watched  him  closely  —  and  he  spoke  with  none 
But  with  Octavio. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  201 

SCENE  VII. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TERZKY,  ILLO.  —  To  them  enter  QUESTEN- 
BERG,  OCTAVIO,  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  BUTLER,  Iso- 
LANI,  MARADAS,  and  three  other  Generals.  WALLEN- 
STEIN motions  QUESTENBERG,  who  in  consequence  takes 
the  chair  directly  opposite  to  him  ;  the  others  follmc, 
arranging  themselves  according  to  their  rank.  There 
reigns  a  momentary  silence. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  have  understood, 

'Tis  true,  the  sum  and  import,  Questenberg, 
Of  your  instructions.     I  have  weighed  them  well, 
And  formed  my  final,  absolute  resolve ; 
Yet  it  seems  fitting  that  the  generals 
Should  hear  the  will  of  the  emperor  from  your  mouth. 
May  it  please  you  then  to  open  your  commission 
Before  these  noble  chieftains  ? 

v^tTESTENBERG. 

I  am  ready 

To  obey  you ;  but  will  first  entreat  your  highness, 
And  all  these  noble  chieftains,  to  consider, 
The  imperial  dignity  and  sovereign  right 
Speaks  from  my  mouth,  and  not  my  own  presumption. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

We  excuse  all  preface. 

QUESTENBERG. 

When  his  majesty 

The  emperor  to  his  courageous  armies 
Presented  in  the  person  of  Duke  Fried  land 
A  most  experienced  and  renowned  commander, 
He  did  it  in  glad  hope  and  confidence 
To  give  thereby  to  the  fortune  of  the  war 
A  rapid  and  auspicious  change.     The  onset 
Was  favorable  to  his  royal  wishes. 
Bohemia  was  delivered  from  the  Saxons, 
The  Swede's  career  of  conquest  checked  !    These  lands 
Began  to  draw  breath  freely,  as  Duke  Friedland 


202  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

From  all  the  streams  of  Germany  forced  hither 
The  scattered  armies  of  the  enemy ; 
Hither  invoked  as  round  one  magic  circle 
The  Rhinegrave,  Bernhard,  Banner,  Oxenstiern, 
Yea,  and  the  never-conquered  king  himself ; 
Here  finally,  before  the  eye  of  Ntirnberg, 
The  fearful  game  of  battle  to  decide. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  the  point,  so  please  you. 

QUESTENBERG. 

A  new  spirit 

At  once  proclaimed  to  us  the  new  commander. 
No  longer  strove  blind  rage  with  rage  more  blind ; 
But  in  the  enlightened  field  of  skill  was  shown 
How  fortitude  can  triumph  over  boldness, 
And  scientific  art  outweary  courage. 
In  vain  they  tempt  him  to  the  fight,  he  only 
Entrenches  him  still  deeper  in  his  hold, 
As  if  to  build  an  everlasting  fortress. 
At  length  grown  desperate,  now,  the  king  resolves 
To  storm  the  camp  and  lead  his  wasted  legions, 
Who  daily  fall  by  famine  and  by  plague, 
To  quicker  deaths  and  hunger  and  disease. 
Through  lines  of  barricades  behind  whose  fence 
Death  lurks  within  a  thousand  mouths  of  fire, 
He  yet  unconquered  strives  to  storm  his  way. 
There  was  attack,  and  there  resistance,  such 
As  mortal  eye  had  never  seen  before  ; 
Repulsed  at  last,  the  king  withdrew  his  troops 
From  this  so  murderous  field,  and  not  a  foot 
Of  ground  was  gained  by  all  that  fearful  slaughter. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Pray  spare  us  these  recitals  from  gazettes, 
Which  we  ourselves  beheld  with  deepest  horror. 

QUESTENBERG. 

In  Ntirnberg's  camp  the  Swedish  monarch  left 
His  fame  —  in  Liitzen's  plains  his  life.     But  who 
Stood  not  astounded,  when  victorious  Friedland 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  203 

After  this  day  of  triumph,  this  proud  day, 

Marched  toward  Bohemia  with  the  speed  of  flight, 

And  vanished  from  the  theatre  of  war  ? 

While  the  young  Weimar  hero  *  forced  his  way 

Into  Franconia,  to  the  Danube,  like 

Some  delving  winter-stream,  which,  where  it  rushes, 

Makes  its  own  channel ;  with  such  sudden  speed 

He  marched,  and  now  at  once  'fore  Regensburg 

Stood  to  the  affright  of  all  good  Catholic  Christians. 

Then  did  Bavaria's  well-deserving  prince 

Entreat  swift  aidance  in  his  extreme  need  ; 

The  emperor  sends  seven  horsemen  to  Duke  Friedland, 

Seven  horsemen  couriers  sends  he  with  the  entreaty : 

He  superadds  his  own,  and  supplicates 

Where  as  the  sovereign  lord  he  can  command. 

In  vain  his  supplication  !     At  this  moment 

The  duke  hears  only  his  old  hate  and  grudge, 

Barters  the  general  good  to  gratify 

Private  revenge — and  so  falls  Regensburg. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max.,  to  what  period  of  the  war  alludes  he? 
My  recollection  fails  me  here. 

MAX. 

He  means 
When  we  were  in  Silesia. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay !  is  it  so ! 
But  what  had  we  to  do  there? 

MAX. 

To  beat  out 
The  Swedes  and  Saxons  from  the  province. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

True; 

In  that  description  which  the  minister  gave, 
I  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  whole  war. 

[  To  QUESTENBERG. 

Well,  but  proceed  a  little. 

*  Bernhard  of  Saxe-Weimar,  who  succeeded  Gustavus  in  command. 


204  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

QUESTENBERG. 

We  hoped  upon  the  Oder  to  regain 

What  on  the  Danube  shamefully  was  lost. 

We  looked  for  deeds  of  all-astounding  grandeur 

Upon  a  theatre  of  war,  on  which 

A  Friedland  led  in  person  to  the  field, 

And  the  famed  rival  of  the  great  Gustavus 

Had  but  a  Thurn  and  Arnheim  to  oppose  him  ! 

Yet  the  encounter  of  their  mighty  hosts 

Served  but  to  feast  and  entertain  each  other. 

Our  country  groaned  beneath  the  woes  of  war, 

Yet  naught  but  peace  prevailed  in  Friedland's  camp ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Full  many  a  bloody  strife  is  fought  in  vain, 
Because  its  youthful  general  needs  a  victory. 
But  'tis  the  privilege  of  the  old  commander 
To  spare  the  costs  of  fighting  useless  battles 
Merely  to  show  that  he  knows  how  to  conquer. 
It  would  have  little  helped  my  fame  to  boast 
Of  conquest  o'er  an  Arnheim  ;  but  far  more 
Would  my  forbearance  have  availed  my  country, 
Had  I  succeeded  to  dissolve  the  alliance 
Existing  'twixt  the  Saxon  and  the  Swede. 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  you  did  not  succeed,  and  so  commenced 

The  fearful  strife  anew.     And  here  at  length, 

Beside  the  river  Ober  did  the  duke 

Assert  his  ancient  fame.     Upon  the  fields 

Of  Steinau  did  the  Swedes  lay  down  their  arms, 

Subdued  without  a  blow.     And  here,  with  others, 

The  righteousness  of  heaven  to  his  avenger 

Delivered  that  long-practised  stirrer-up 

Of  insurrection,  that  curse-laden  torch 

And  kindler  of  this  war,  Matthias  Thurn. 

But  he  had  fallen  into  magnanimous  hands 

Instead  of  punishment  he  found  reward, 

And  with  rich  presents  did  the  duke  dismiss 

The  arch-foe  of  his  emperor. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  205 

WALLENSTEIN  (laughs). 

I  know, 

I  know  you  had  already  in  Vienna 
Your  windows  and  your  balconies  forestalled 
To  see  him  on  the  executioner's  cart. 
I  might  have  lost  the  battle,  lost  it  too 
With  infamy,  and  still  retained  your  graces  — 
But,  to  have  cheated  them  of  a  spectacle, 
Oh  !  that  the  good  folks  of  Vienna  never, 
No,  never  can  forgive  me ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

So  Silesia 

Was  freed,  and  all  things  loudly  called  the  duke 
Into  Bavaria,  now  pressed  hard  on  all  sides. 
And  he  did  put  his  troops  in  motion  :  slowly, 
Quite  at  his  ease,  and  by  the  longest  road 
He  traverses  Bohemia ;  but  ere  ever 
He  hath  once  seen  the  enemy,  faces  round, 
Breaks  up  the  march,  and  takes  to  winter-quarters. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  troops  were  pitiably  destitute 

Of  every  necessary,  every  comfort, 

The  winter  came.     What  thinks  his  majesty 

His  troops  are  made  of?     Aren't  we  men  ;  subjected 

Like  other  men  to  wet,  and  cold,  and  all 

The  circumstances  of  necessity? 

Oil,  miserable  lot  of  the  poor  soldier  ! 

Wherever  he  comes  in  all  flee  before  him, 

And  when  he  goes  away  the  general-  curse 

Follows  him  on  his  route.     All  must  be  seized. 

Nothing  is  given  him.     And  compelled  to  seize 

From  every  man  he's  every  man's  abhorrence. 

Behold,  hei'e  stand  my  generals.     Karaffa  ! 

Count  Deodati !     Butler!     Tell  this  man 

How  long  the  soldier's  pay  is  in  arrears. 

BUTLER. 
Already  a  full  year. 


206  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  'tis  the  hire 

That  constitutes  the  hireling's  name  and  duties, 
The  soldier's  pay  is  the  soldier's  covenant.* 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ah !  this  is  a  far  other  tone  from  that 

In  which  the  duke  spoke  eight,  nine  years  aga. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes !  'tis  my  fault,  I  know  it :  I  myself 
Have  spoilt  the  emperor  by  indulging  him. 
Nine  years  ago,  during  the  Danish  war, 
I  raised  him  up  a  force,  a  mighty  force, 
Forty  or  fifty  thousand  men,  that  cost  him 
Of  his  own  purse  no  doit.     Through  Saxony 
The  fury  goddess  of  the  war  marched  on, 
E'en  to  the  surf-rocks  of  the  Baltic,  bearing 
The  terrors  of  his  name.     That  was  a  time  ! 
In  the  whole- imperial  realm  no  name  like  mine 
Honored  with  festival  and  celebration  — 
And  Albrecht  Wallenstein,  it  was  the  title 
Of  the  third  jewel  in  his  crown  ! 
But  at  the  Diet,  when  the  princes  met 
At  Regensburg,  there,  there  the  whole  broke  out, 
There  'twas  laid  open,  there  it  was  made  known 
Out  of  what  money-bag  I  had  paid  the  host, 
And  what  were  now  my  thanks,  what  had  I  now 
That  I,  a  faithful  servant  of  the  sovereign, 
Had  loaded  on  myself  the  people's  curses, 
And  let  the  princes  of  the  empire  pay 
The  expenses  of  this  war  that  aggrandizes 
The  emperor  alone.     What  thanks  had  I? 
What  ?    I  was  offered  up  to  their  complaint 
Dismissed,  degraded ! 

*  The  origiiial  is  not  translatable  into  English  :  — 

Und  sein  Sold 

Muss  dem  Soldaten  werden,  darnach  heisst  er. 
It  might  perhaps  have  been  thus  rendered :  — 

And  that  for  which  he  sold  his  services, 
The  soldier  must  receive  — 
hut  a  false  or  doubtful  etymology  is  no  more  than  a  dull  pun. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  207 

QUESTENBERG 

But  your  highness  knows 
What  little  freedom  he  possessed  of  action 
In  that  disastrous  Diet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Death  and  hell ! 

I  had  that  which  could  have  procured  him  freedom 
No !  since  'twas  proved  so  inauspicious  to  me 
To  serve  the  emperor  at  the  empire's  cost, 
I  have  been  taught  far  other  trains  of  thinking 
Of  the  empire  and  the  Diet  of  the  empire. 
From  the  emperor,  doubtless,  I  received  this  staff, 
But  now  I  hold  it  as  the  empire's  general,  — 
For  the  common  weal,  the  universal  interest, 
And  no  more  for  that  one  man's  aggrandizement ! 
But  to  the  point.     What  is  it  that's  desired  of  me? 

QUESTENBERG. 

First,  his  imperial  majesty  hath  willed 
That  without  pretexts  of  delay  the  army 
Evacuate  Bohemia. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  this  season  ? 

And  to  what  quarter  wills  the  emperor 
That  we  direct  our  course  ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

To  the  enemy. 

His  majesty  resolves,  that  Regensburg 
Be  purified  from  the  enemy  ere  Easter, 
That  Lutheranism  may  be  no  longer  preached 
In  that  cathedral,  nor  heretical 
Defilement  desecrate  the  celebration 
Of  that  pure  festival. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

My  generals, 
Can  this  be  realized  ? 

ILLO. 
'Tis  not  possible. 


208  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

BUTLER. 

It  can't  be  realized. 

QUESTENBERG. 

The  emperor 

Already  hath  commanded  Colonel  Suys 
To  advance  towards  Bavaria. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  did  Suys  ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

That  which  his  duty  prompted.    He  advanced. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What !  he  advanced  ?    And  I,  his  general, 
Had  given  him  orders,  peremptory  orders  : 
Not  to  desert  his  station  !     Stands  it  thus 
With  my  authority  ?     Is  this  the  obedience 
Due  to  my  office,  which  being  thrown  aside, 
No  war  can  be  conducted  ?     Chieftains,  speak: 
You  be  the  judges,  generals  !     What  deserves 
That  officer  who,  of  his  oath  neglectful, 
Is  guilty  of  contempt  of  orders  ? 

ILLO. 

Death. 

WALLENSTEIN  (raising  his  voice,  as  all  Init  ILLO  had  re- 
mained silent  and  seemingly  scrupulous). 

Count  Piccolomini !  what  has  he  deserved  ? 
MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  (after  a  long  pause). 

According  to  the  letter  of  the  law, 
Death. 

ISOLANI. 
Death. 

BUTLER. 

Death,  by  the  laws  of  war. 

[QUESTENBERG  rises  from  his  seat,  WALLENSTEIN 
follows,  all  the  rest  rise. 


THE    riCCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  this  the  law  condemns  him,  and  not  I. 

And  if  I  show  him  favor,  'twill  arise 

From  the  reverence  that  I  owe  my  emperor. 

QUESTENBERG. 

If  so,  I  can  say  nothing  further — here! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  accepted  the  command  but  on  conditions ! 

And  this  the  first,  that  to  the  diminution 

Of  my  authority  no  human  being, 

Not  even  the  emperor's  self,  should  be  entitled 

To  do  aught,  or  to  say  aught,  with  the  army. 

If  I  stand  warranter  of  the  event, 

Placing  my  honor  and  my  head  in  pledge, 

Needs  must  I  have  full  mastery  in  all 

The  means  thereto.     What  rendered  this  Gustavus 

Resistless,  and  unconquered  upon  earth? 

This —  that  he  was  the  monarch  in  his  army  ! 

A  monarch,  one  who  is  indeed  a  monarch, 

Was  never  yet  subdued  but  by  his  equal. 

But  to  the  point !     The  best  is  yet  to  come, 

Attend  now,  generals ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

The  Prince  Cardinal 

Begins  his  route  at  the  approach  of  spring 
From  the  Milanese  ;  and  leads  a  Spanish  army 
Through  Germany  into  the  Netherlands. 
That  he  may  march  secure  and  unimpeded, 
'Tis  the  emperor's  will  you  grant  him  a  detachment 
Of  eight  horse-regiments  from  the  army  here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  yes !  I  understand  !     Eight  regiments !     Well, 
Right  well  concerted,  Father  Lanormain  ! 
Eight  thousand  horse  !   Yes,  yes !  'tis  as  it  should  be ! 
I  see  it  coming. 

QUESTENBERG. 

There  is  nothing  coming. 

All  stands  in  front :  the  counsel  of  state-prudence, 
The  dictate  of  necessity! 


210  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  then  ? 

What,  my  lord  envoy  ?     May  I  not  be  suffered 
To  understand  that  folks  are  tired  of  seeing 
The  sword's  hilt  in  my  grasp,  and  that  your  court 
Snatch  eagerly  at  this  pretence,  and  use 
The  Spanish  title,  and  drain  off  my  forces, 
To  lead  into  the  empire  a  new  army 
Unsubjected  to  my  control?    To  throw  me 
Plumply  aside,  —  I  am  still  too  powerful  for  you 
To  venture  that.     My  stipulation  runs, 
That  all  the  imperial  forces  shall  obey  me 
Where'er  the  German  is  the  native  language. 
Of  Spanish  troops  and  of  prince  cardinals, 
That  take  their  route  as  visitors,  through  the  empire, 
There  stands  no  syllable  in  my  stipulation. 
No  syllable !     And  so  the  politic  court 
Steals  in  on  tiptoe,  and  creeps  round  behind  it; 
First  makes  me  weaker,  then  to  be  dispensed  with, 
Till  it  dares  strike  at  length  a  bolder  blow, 
And  make  short  work  with  me. 
What  need  of  all  these  crooked  ways,  lord  envoy? 
Straightforward,  man !  his  compact  with  me  pinches 
The  emperor.     He  would  that  I  moved  off ! 
Well !     I  will  gratify  him  ! 

[Here  there  commences  an  agitation  among  the  gen- 
erals, which  increases  continually. 

It  grieves  me  for  my  noble  officers'  sakes ; 

I  see  not  yet  by  what  means  they  will  come  at 

The  moneys  they  have  advanced,  or  how  obtain 

The  recompense  their  services  demand. 

Still  a  new  leader  brings  new  claimants  forward, 

And  prior  merit  superannuates  quickly. 

There  serve  here  many  foreigners  in  the  army, 

And  were  the  man  in  all  else  brave  and  gallant, 

I  was  not  wont  to  make  nice  scrutiny 

After  his  pedigree  or  catechism. 

This  will  be  otherwise  i'  the  time  to  come. 

Well ;  me  no  longer  it  concerns.        [He  seats  himself. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  211 

MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

Forbid  it,  Heaven,  that  it  should  come  to  this ! 
Our  troops  will  swell  in  dreadful  fermentation  — 
The  emperor  is  abused  —  it  cannot  be. 

ISOLANI. 
It  cannot  be ;  all  goes  to  instant  wreck. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  hast  said  truly,  faithful  Isolani ! 
What  we  with  toil  and  foresight  have  built  up 
Will  go  to  wreck  —  all  go  to  instant  wreck. 
What  then  ?    Another  chieftain  is  soon  found, 
Another  army  likewise  (who  dares  doubt  it?) 
Will  flock  from  all  sides  to  the  emperor, 
At  the  first  beat  of  his  recruiting  drum. 
[During  this  speech,  ISOLANI,   TERZKY,  ILLO,  and 
MARADAS  talk  confusedly  with  great  agitation. 

MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  (busily  and  passionately  going  from 
one  to  another ,  and  toothing  them). 

Hear,  my  commander !    Hear  me,  generals ! 

Let  me  conjure  you,  duke!     Determine  nothing, 

Till  we  have  met  and  represented  to  you 

Our  joint  remonstrances  !     Nay,  calmer  1     Friends! 

I  hope  all  may  yet  be  set  right  again. 

TERZKY. 

Away  !  let  us  away  !  in. the  antechamber 

Find  we  the  others.  [  They  go. 

BUTLER  (to  QUESTENBERG). 

If  good  counsel  gain 

Due  audience  from  your  wisdom,  my  lord  envoy, 
You  will  be  cautious  how  you  show  yourself 
In  public  for  some  hours  to  come  —  or  hardly 
Will  that  gold  key  protect  you  from  maltreatment. 

[  Commotions  heard  from  without. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  salutary  counsel Thou,  Octavio  ! 

Wilt  answer  for  the  safety  of  our  guest. 


212  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

Farewell,  Von  Questenberg ! 

[QlJESTENBURG  18  about  to  Speak. 

Nay,  not  a  word. 

Not  one  word  more  of  that  detested  subject ! 

You  have  performed  your  duty.     We  know  now 

To  separate  the  office  from  the  man. 

\_As  QUESTENBERG  is  going  off  with  OCTAVIO,  GO^TZ, 
TIEFENBACH,  KOLATTO,  press  in,  several  other  gen- 
erals following  them. 

GOETZ. 
Where's  he  who  means  to  rob  us  of  our  general  ? 

TIEFENBACH  (at  the  same  time). 
What  are  we  forced  to  hear?  That  thou  wilt  leave  us? 

KOLATTO  (at  the  same  time). 
We  will  live  with  thee,  we  will  die  with  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN  (with  stateliness,  and  pointing  to  ILLO). 
There  !  the  field-marshal  knows  our  will.  [Exit. 

[  While  all  are  going  off  the  stage,  the  curtain  drops. 

SCENE  III. 
A  Small  Chamber. 
ILLO  and  TERZKY. 

TERZKY. 

Now  for  this  evening's  business  !     How  intend  you 
To  manage  with  the  generals  at  the  banquet  ? 

ILLO. 

Attend !     We  frame  a  formal  declaration, 

Wherein  we  to  the  duke  consign  ourselves 

Collectively,  to  be  and  to  remain 

His,  both  with  life  and  limb,  and  not  to  spare 

The  last  drop  of  our  blood  for  him,  provided, 

So  doing  we  infringe  no  oath  or  duty 

We  may  be  under  to  the  emperor.     Mark  ! 

This  reservation  we  expressly  make 

In  a  particular  clause,  and  save  the  conscience. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  213 

Now  hear !  this  formula  so  framed  and  worded 
Will  be  presented  to  them  for  perusal 
Before  the  banquet.    No  one  will  find  in  it 
Cause  of  offence  or  scruple.     Hear  now  further ! 
After  the  feast,  when  now  the  vapering  wine 
Opens  the  heart,  and  shuts  the  eyes,  we  let 
A  counterfeited  paper,  in  the  which 
This  one  particular  clause  has  been  left  out, 
Go  round  for  signatures. 

TERZKY, 

How  !  think  you  then 

That  they'll  believe  themselves  bound  by  an  oath, 
Which  we  have  tricked  them  into  by  a  juggle? 

ILLO. 

We  shall  have  caught  and  caged  them  !  Let  them  then 
Beat  their  wings  bare  against  the  wires,  and  rave 
Loud  as  they  may  against  our  treachery ; 
At  court  their  signatures  will  be  believed 
Far  more  than  their  most  holy  affirmations. 
Traitors  they  are,  and  must  be ;  therefore  wisely 
Will  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

TERZKY. 

Well,  well,  it  shall  content  me  :  let  but  something 
Be  done,  let  only  some  decisive  blow 
Set  us  in  motion. 

ILLO. 

Besides,  'tis  of  subordinate  importance 
How,  or  how  far,  we  may  thereby  propel 
The  generals.     'Tis  enough  that  we  persuade 
The  duke  that  they  are  his.     Let  him  but  act 
In  his  determined  mood,  as  if  he  had  them, 
And  he  will  have  them.     Where  he  plunges  in, 
He  makes  a  whirlpool,  and  all  stream  down  to  it. 

TERZKY. 

His  policy  is  such  a  labyrinth, 
That  many  a  time  when  I  have  thought  myself 
Close  at  his  side,  he's  gone  at  once,  and  left  me 
Ignorant  of  the  ground  where  I  was  standing. 


214  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

He  lends  the  enemy  his  ear,  permits  me 
To  write  to  them,  to  Arnheim ;  to  Sesina 
Himself  comes  forward  blank  and  undisguised ; 
Talks  with  us  by  the  hour  about  his  plans, 
And  when  I  think  I  have  him  —  off  at  once  — 
He  has  slipped  from  me,  and  appears  as  if 
He  had  no  scheme,  but  to  retain  his  place. 

ILLO. 

He  give  up  his  old  plans  !  I'll  tell  you,  friend ! 

His  soul  is  occupied  with  nothing  else, 

Even  in  his  sleep  —  they  are  his  thoughts,  his  dreams. 

That  day  by  day  he  questions  for  this  purpose 

The  motions  of  the  planets 

TEEZKY. 

Ah  !  you  know 

This  night,  that  is  now  coming,  he  with  Seni, 
Shuts  himself  up  in  the  astrological  tower 
To  make  joint  observations  —  for  I  hear 
It  is  to  be  a  night  of  weight  and  crisis ; 
And  something  great,  and  of  long  expectation, 
Takes  place  in  heaven. 

ILLO. 

O  that  it  might  take  place 
On  earth !     The  generals  are  full  of  zeal, 
And  would  with  ease  be  led  to  anything 
Rather  than  lose  their  chief.     Observe,  too,  that 
We  have  at  last  a  fair  excuse  before  us 
To  form  a  close  alliance  'gainst  the  court, 
Yet  innocent  its  title,  bearing  simply 
That  we  support  him  only  in  command. 
But  in  the  ardor  of  pursuit  thou  knowest 
Men  soon  forget  the  goal  from  which  they  started. 
The  object  I've  in  view  is  that  the  prince 
Shall  either  find  them,  or  believe  them  ready 
For  every  hazard.     Opportunity 
Will  tempt  him  on.     Be  the  great  step  once  taken, 
Which  at  Vienna's  court  can  ne'er  be  pardoned, 
The  force  of  circumstances  will  lead  him  onward 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  215 

The  farther  still  and  farther.  'Tis  the  choice 
That  makes  him  undecisive  —  come  but  need, 
And  all  his  powers  and  wisdom  will  come  with  it. 

TERZKY. 

'Tis  this  alone  the  enemy  awaits 

To  change  their  chief  and  join  their  force  with  ours. 

ILLO. 

Come  !  be  we  bold  and  make  despatch.     The  work 
In  this  next  day  or  two  must  thrive  and  grow 
More  than  it  has  for  years.     And  let  but  only 
Things  first  turn  up  auspicious  here  below  — 
Mark  what  I  say  —  the  right  stars,  too,  will  show  them- 
selves. 

Come  to  the  generals.     All  is  in  the  glow, 
And  must  be  beaten  while  'tis  malleable. 

TERZKY. 

Do  you  go  thither,  Illo  ?     I  must  stay 
And  wait  here  for  the  Countess  Terzky.     Know 
That  we,  too,  are  not  idle.     Break  one  string, 
A  second  is  in  readiness. 

ILLO. 

Yes !  yes ! 

I  saw  your  lady  smile  with  such  sly  meaning. 
What's  in  the  wind  ? 

TERZKY. 
A  secret.    Hush !  she  comes. 

\Ex,it  ILLO. 

SCENE  II. 

The  COUNTESS  steps  out  from  a  closet. 
COUNT  and  COUNTESS  TERZKY. 

TERZKY. 

Well  —  is  she  coming  ?    I  can  keep  him  back 
No  longer. 

COUNTESS. 

She  will  be  here  instantly, 
You  only  send  him. 


216  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

TEEZKY. 

I  am  not  quite  certain, 
I  must  confess  it,  countess,  whether  or  not 
We  are  earning  the  duke's  thanks  hereby.     You  know 
No  ray  has  broke  out  from  him  on  this  point. 
You  have  o'erruled  me,  and  yourself  know  best 
How  far  you  dare  proceed. 

COUNTESS. 

I  take  it  on  me. 

[  Talking  to  herself  while  she  is  advancing. 
Here's  no  heed  of  full  powers  and  commissions; 
My  cloudy  duke  !  we  understand  each  other  — 
And  without  words.     What  could  I  not  unriddle, 
Wherefore  the  daughter  should  be  sent  for  hither, 
Why  first  he,  and  no  other  should  be  chosen 
To  fetch  her  hither  ?     This  sham  of  betrothing  her 
To  a  bridegroom  *,  whom  no  one  knows  —  No !  no ! 
This  may  blind  others  !     I  see  through  thee,  brother ! 
But  it  beseems  thee  not  to  draw  a  card 
At  such  a  game.     Not  yet !     It  all  remains 
Mutely  delivered  up  to  my  finessing. 
Well  —  thou  shalt  not  have  been  deceived,  Puko  Fried- 
land, 
In  her  who  is  thy  sister. 

SERVANT  (enters). 

The  commanders !  [JEhsit- 

TERZKY  (to  the  COUNTESS). 
Take  care  you  heat  his  fancy  and  affections  — 
Possess  him  with  a  reverie,  and  send  him, 
Absent  and  dreaming  to  the  banquet ;  that 
He  may  not  boggle  at  the  signature. 

COUNTESS. 
Take  care  of  your  guests !    Go,  send  him  hither. 

TT7T>>7T7'V 


TERZKY. 

All  rests  upon  his  undersigning. 


*  In  Germany,  after  honorable  addresses  have  been  paid  and  formally 
accepted,  the  lovers  are  called  bride  and  bridegroom,  even  though  the  mar- 
riage should  not  take  place  till  years  afterwards. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  217 

COUNTESS  (interrupting  him). 

Go  to  your  guests !    Go 

ILLO  (comes  back). 

Where  art  staying,  Terzky? 
The  house  is  full,  and  all  expecting  you. 

TERZKY. 

Instantly !  instantly !  [  To  the  COUNTESS. 

And  let  him  not 

Stay  here  too  long.     It  might  awake  suspicion 
In  the  old  man 

COUNTESS. 

A  truce  with  your  precautions ! 

[Exeunt  TERZKY  and  ILLO. 

SCENE  III. 

COUNTESS,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 
MAX.  (peeping  in  on  the  stage  slyly). 
Aunt  Terzky  !  may  I  venture  ? 

[Advances  to  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  looks 
around  him  with  uneasiness. 

She's  not  here ! 
Where  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Look  but  somewhat  narrowly 
In  yonder  corner,  lest  perhaps  she  lie 
Concealed  behind  that  screen. 

MAX. 

There  lie  her  gloves ! 

[Snatches  at  them,  bttt  the  COUNTESS  takes  tliem  herself. 
You  unkind  lady  !     You  refuse  me  this, 
You  make  it  an  amusement  to  torment  me. 

COUNTESS. 

And  this  the  thanks  you  give  me  for  my  trouble  ? 

MAX. 

O,  if  you  felt  the  oppression  at  my  heart ! . 
Since  we've  been  here,  so  to  constrain  myself 


218  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

With  such  poor  stealth  to  hazard  words  and  glancea 
These,  these  are  not  my  habits ! 

COUNTESS. 

You  have  still 

Many  new  habits  to  acquire,  young  friend ! 
But  on  this  proof  of  your  obedient  temper 
I  must  continue  to  insist ;  and  only 
On  this  condition  can  I  play  the  agent 
For  your  concerns. 

MAX. 

But  wherefore  comes  she  not? 
Where  is  she? 

COUNTESS. 

Into  my  hands  you  must  place  it 
Whole  and  entire.     Whom  could  you  find,  indeed, 
More  zealously  affected  to  your  interest  ? 
No  soul  on  earth  must  know  it  —  not  your  father ; 
He  must  not,  above  all. 

MAX. 

Alas!  what  danger? 

Here  is  no  face  on  which  I  might  concentre 
All  the  enraptured  soul  stirs  up  within  me. 

0  lady!  tell  me,  is  all  changed  around  me? 
Or  is  it  only  I  ? 

I  find  myself, 

As  among  strangers !     Not  a  trace  is  left 
Of  all  my  former  wishes,  former  joys. 
Where  has  it  vanished  to  ?    There  was  a  time 
When  even,  methought,  with  such  a  world  as  this, 

1  was  not  discontented.     Now  how  flat! 
How  stale  !     No  life,  no  bloom,  no  flavor  in  it ! 
My  comrades  are  intolerable  to  me. 

My  father  —  even  to  him  I  can  say  nothing. 
My  arms,  my  military  duties  —  O ! 
They  are  such  wearying  toys ! 

COUNTESS. 

But,  gentle  friend ! 

I  must  entreat  it  of  your  condescension, 
You  would  be  pleased  to  sink  your  eye,  and  favor 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  219 

With  one  short  glance  or  two  this  poor  stale  world, 
Where  even  now  much,  and  of  much  moment, 
Is  on  the  eve  of  its  completion. 

MAX. 

Something, 

I  can't  but  know  is  going  forward  round  me. 
I  see  it  gathering,  crowding,  driving  on, 
In  wild  uncustomary  movements.     Well, 
In  due  time,  doubtless,  it  will  reach  even  me. 
Where  think  you  I  have  been,  dear  lady  ?    Nay, 
No  raillery.     The  turmoil  of  the  camp, 
The  spring-tide  of  acquaintance  rolling  in, 
The  pointless  jest,  the  empty  conversation, 
Oppressed  and  stifled  me.     I  gasped  for  air  — 
I  could  not  breathe  —  I  was  constrained  to  fly, 
To  seek  a  silence  out  for  my  full  heart ; 
And  a  pure  spot  wherein  to  feel  my  happiness. 
No  smiling,  countess !     In  the  church  was  I. 
There  is  a  cloister  here  "  To  the  heaven's  gate,"  * 
Thither  I  went,  there  found  myself  alone. 
Over  the  altar  hung  a  holy  mother  ; 
A  wretched  painting 'twas,  yet  'twas  the  friend 
That  I  was  seeking  in  this  moment.     Ah, 
How  oft  have  I  beheld  that  glorious  form 
In  splendor,  'mid  ecstatic  worshippers ; 
Yet,  still  it  moved  me  not !  and  now  at  once 
Was  my  devotion  cloudless  as  my  love. 

COUNTESS. 

Enjoy  your  fortune  and  felicity  ! 

Forget  the  world  around  you.     Meantime,  friendship 

Shall  keep  strict  vigils  for  you,  anxious,  active. 

Only  be  manageable  when  that  friendship 

Points  you  the  road  to  full  accomplishment. 

MAX. 

But  where  abides  she  then  ?    Oh,  golden  time 
Of  travel,  when  each  morning  sun  united 

*  I  am  doubtful  whether  this  be  the  dedication  of  the  cloister,  or  the  nam« 
of  one  of  the  city  gates,  near  which  it  stood.  I  have  translated  it  in  the 
former  sense  ;  but  fearful  of  having  made  some  blunder,  I  add  the  original,— 
Es  1st  ein  Kloster  hier  zur  BtnmelsRfarte, 


220  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

And  but  the  coming  night  divided  us ; 
Then  ran  no  sand,  then  struck  no  hour  for  us, 
And  time,  in  our  excess  of  happiness, 
Seemed  on  its  course  eternal  to  stand  still. 
Oh,  he  hath  fallen  from  out  his  heaven  of  bliss 
Who  can  descend  to  count  the  changing  hours, 
No  clock  strikes  ever  for  the  happy ! 

COUNTESS. 
How  long  is  it  since  you  declared  your  passion  ? 

MAX. 
This  morning  did  I  hazard  the  first  word. 

COUNTESS. 
This  morning  the  first  time  in  twenty  days? 

MAX. 

'Twas  at  that  hunting-castle,  betwixt  here 
And  Nepomuck,  where  you  had  joined  us,  and  — 
That  was  the  last  relay  of  the  whole  journey ; 
In  a  balcony  we  were  standing  mute, 
And  gazing  out  upon  the  dreary  field  : 
Before  us  the  dragoons  were  riding  onward, 
The  safeguard  which  the  duke  had  sent  us  —  heavy; 
The  inquietude  of  parting  lay  upon  me, 
And  trembling  ventured  I  at  length  these  words : 
This  all  reminds  me,  noble  maiden,  that 
To-day  I  must  take  leave  of  my  good  fortune. 
A  few  hours  more,  and  you  will  find  a  father, 
Will  see  yourself  surrounded  by  new  friends, 
And  I  henceforth  shall  be  but  as  a  stranger, 
Lost  in  the  many  —  "  Speak  with  my  Aunt  Terzky ! " 
With  hurrying  voice  she  interrupted  me. 
She  faltered.     I  beheld  a  glowing  red 
Possess  her  beautiful  cheeks,  and  from  the  ground 
Raised  slowly  up  her  eye  met  mine  —  no  longer 
Did  I  control  myself. 

[The  Princess  THEKLA  appears  at  the  door,  and 

remains  standing,  observed  by  the  COUNTESS, 

but  not  by  PICCOLOMINI. 

With  instant  boldness 
I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  my  lips  touched  hers ; 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  221 

There  was  a  rustling  in  the  room  close  by ; 

It  parted  us  — 'Twas  you.     What  since  has  happened 

You  know. 

COUNTESS  (after  a  pause,  with  a  stolen  glance  at  THEKLA). 

Arid  is  it  your  excess  of  modesty 
Or  are  you  so  incurious,  that  you  do  not 
Ask  ine  too  of  my  secret  ? 

MAX. 

Of  your  secret  ? 
COUNTESS. 

Why,  yes!     When  in  the  instant  after  you 
I  stepped  into  the  room,  and  found  my  niece  there; 
What  she  in  this  first  moment  of  the  heart 
Taken  with  surprise  — 

MAX.  (with  eagerness). 
Well? 


SCENE  IV. 

THEKLA  (hurries  forward),  COUNTESS,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINL 
THEKLA  (to  the  COUNTESS). 

Spare  yourself  the  trouble : 
That  hears  he  better  from  myself. 

MAX.  (stepping  backward). 

My  princess ! 
What  have  you  let  her  hear  me  say,  Aunt  Terzky? 

THEKLA  (to  the  COUNTESS). 
Has  he  been  here  long  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes ;  and  soon  must  go, 
Where  have  you  stayed  so  long  ? 

THEKLA. 

Alas !  my  mother, 

Wept  so  again !  and  I  —  I  see  her  suffer, 
Yet  cannot  keep  myself  from  being  happy. 


222  THE   PICCOLOMIN1. 

MAX. 

Now  once  again  I  have  courage  to  look  on  you. 
To-day  at  noon  I  could  not. 
The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  that  played  round  you 
Hid  the  beloved  from  me. 

THEKLA. 

Then  you  saw  me 
With  your  eye  only  —  and  not  with  your  heart  ? 

MAX. 

This  morning,  when  I  found  you  in  the  circle 

Of  all  your  kindred,  in  your  father's  arms, 

Beheld  myself  an  alien  in  this  circle, 

O !  what  an  impulse  felt  I  in  that  moment 

To  fall  upon  his  neck,  to  call  him  father  ! 

But  his  stern  eye  o'erpowered  the  swelling  passion, 

It  dared  not  but  be  silent.     And  those  brilliants, 

That  like  a  crown  of  stars  enwreathed  your  brows, 

They  scared  me  too !   O  wherefore,  wherefore  should  he 

At  the  first  meeting  spread  as  'twere  the  ban 

Of  excommunication  round  you,  —  wherefore 

Dress  up  the  angel  as  for  sacrifice. 

And  cast  upon  the  light  and  joyous  heart 

The  mournful  burden  of  his  station  ?    Fitly 

May  love  dare  woo  for  love  ;  but  such  a  splendor 

Might  none  but  monarchs  venture  to  approach. 

THEKLA. 

Hush !  not  a  word  more  of  this  mummery ; 
You  see  how  soon  the  burden  is  thrown  off. 

[  To  the  COUNTESS. 

He  is  not  in  spirits.     Wherefore  is  he  not  ? 
'Tis  you,  aunt,  that  have  made  him  all  so  gloomy ! 
He  had  quite  another  nature  on  the  journey  — 
So  calm,  so  bright,  so  joyous  eloquent.     •       \_To  MAX. 
It  was  my  wish  to  see  you  always  so, 
And  never  otherwise  1 

MAX. 

You  find  yourself 
In  your  great  father's  arms,  beloved  lady ! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  223 

All  in  a  new  world,  which  does  homage  to  you, 
And  which,  were't  only  by  its  novelty, 
Delights  your  eye. 

THEKLA. 

Yes ;  I  confess  to  you 

That  many  things  delight  me  here :  this  camp, 
This  motley  stage  of  warriors,  which  renews 
So  manifold  the  image  of  my  fancy, 
And  binds  to  life,  binds  to  reality, 
What  hitherto  had  but  been  present  to  me 
As  a  sweet  dream  ! 

MAX. 

Alas !  not  so  to  me. 
It  makes  a  dream  of  my  reality. 
Upon  some  island  in  the  ethereal  heights 
I've  lived  for  these  last  days.     This  mass  of  men 
Forces  me  down  to  earth.     It  is  a  bridge 
That,  reconducting  to  my  former  life, 
Divides  me  and  my  heaven. 

THEKLA. 

The  game  of  life 

Looks  cheerful,  when  one  carries  in  one's  heart 
The  unalienable  treasure.     'Tis  a  game, 
Which,  having  once  reviewed,  I  turn  more  joyous 
Back  to  my  deeper  and  appropriate  bliss. 

[Breaking  off,  and  in  a  sportive  tone. 
In  this  short  time  that  I've  been  present  here. 
What  new  unheard-of  things  have  I  not  seen; 
And  yet  they  all  must  give  place  to  the  wond 
Which  this  mysterious  castle  guards. 

COUNTESS  (recollecting). 

And  what 

Can  this  be  then  ?    Methought  I  was  acquainted 
With  all  the  dusky  corners  of  this  house. 

THEKLA  (smiling}. 

Ay,  but  the  road  thereto  is  watched  by  spirits, 
Two  griffins  still  stand  sentry  at  the  door. 


224  THE   PICCOLOM1NI. 

COUNTESS  (laughs). 

The  astrological  tower  !     How  happens  it 
That  this  same  sanctuary,  whose  access 
Is  to  all  others  so  impracticable, 
Opens  before  you  even  at  your  approach? 

THEKLA. 

A  dwarfish  old  man  with  a  friendly  face 

And  snow-white  hairs,  whose  gracious  services 

Were  mine  at  first  sight,  opened  me  the  doors. 

MAX. 
That  is  the  duke's  astrologer,  old  Seni. 

THEKLA. 

He  questioned  me  on  many  points ;  for  instance, 
When  I  was  born,  what  month,  and  on  what  day, 
Whether  by  day  or  in  the  night. 

COUNTESS. 

He  wished 
To  erect  a  figure  for  your  horoscope. 

THEKLA. 

My  hand  too  he  examined,  shook  his  head 

With  much  sad  meaning,  and  the  lines,  methought, 

Did  not  square  over  truly  with  his  wishes. 

COUNTESS. 

Well,  princess,  and  what  found  you  in  this  tower  ? 
My  highest  privilege  has  been  to  snatch 
A  side-glance,  and  away  ! 

THEKLA. 

It  was  a  strange 

Sensation  that  came  o'er  me,  when  at  first 
From  the  broad  sunshine  I  stepped  in  ;  and  no\f 
The  narrowing  line  of  daylight,  that  ran  after 
The  closing  door,  was  gone ;  and  all  about  me 
'Twas  pale,  and  dusky  night,  with  many  shadows 
Fantastically  cast.     Here  six  or  seven 
Colossal  statues,  and  all  kings,  stood  round  me 
In  a  half-circle.    Each  one  in  his  hand 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  225 

A  sceptre  bore,  and  on  his  head  a  star ; 

And  in  the  tower  no  other  light  was  there 

But  from  these  stars  all  seemed  to  come  from  them. 

K  These  are  the  planets,"  said  that  low  old  man, 

"They  govern  worldy  fates,  and  for  that  cause 

Are  imaged  here  as  kings.    He  farthest  from  you, 

Spiteful  and  cold,  an  old  man  melancholy, 

With  bent  and  yellow  forehead,  he  is  Saturn. 

He  opposite,  the  king  with  the  red  light, 

An  armed  man  for  the  battle,  that  is  Mars ; 

And  both  these  bring  but  little  luck  to  man." 

But  at  his  side  a  lovely  lady  stood, 

The  star  upon  her  head  was  soft  and  bright, 

Oh,  that  was  Venus,  the  bright  star  of  joy. 

And  the  left  hand,  lo  !  Mercury,  with  wings 

Quite  in  the  middle  glittered  silver  bright. 

A  cheerful  man,  and  with  a  monarch's  mien ; 

And  this  was  Jupiter,  my  father's  star  : 

And  at  his  side  I  saw  the  Sun  and  Moon. 

MAX. 

Oh,  never  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 

In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels.    'Tis  not  merely 

The  human  being's  pride  that  peoples  space 

With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 

Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  love 

This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 

Is  all  too  narrow  ;  yea,  a  deeper  import 

Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 

Than  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 

For  fable  is  love's  world,  his  home,  his  birth-place ; 

Delightedly  dwells  he  among  fays  and  talismans, 

And  spirits  ;  and  delightedly  believes 

Divinities,  being  himself  divine 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 

That  had  her  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 

Or  chasms,  and  watery  depths,  all  these  have  vanished. 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason ! 


226  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 
Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names ; 
And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 
Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 
With  man  as  with  their  friend,*  and  to  the  lover 
Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 
Shoot  influence  down :  and  even  at  this  day 
'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  what'er  is  great, 
And  Venus  who  brings  everything  that's  fair ! 

THEKLA. 

And  if  this  be  the  science  of  the  stars, 

I  too,  with  glad  and  zealous  industry, 

Will  learn  acquaintance  with  this  cheerful  faith. 

It  is  a  gentle  and  affectionate  thought, 

That  in  immeasurable  heights  above  us, 

At  our  first  birth,  the  wreath  of  love  was  woven, 

With  sparkling  stars  for  flowers. 

COUNTESS. 

Not  only  roses 

But  thorns  too  hath  the  heaven,  and  well  for  you 
Leave  they  your  wreath  of  love  inviolate  : 
What  Venus  twined,  the  bearer  of  glad  fortune, 
The  sullen  orb  of  Mars  soon  tears  to  pieces. 

MAX. 

Soon  will  this  gloomy  empire  reach  its  close. 
Blest  be  the  general's  zeal:  into  the  laurel 
Will  he  inweave  the  olive-branch,  presenting 
Peace  to  the  shouting  nations.     Then  no  wish 
Will  have  remained  for  his  great  heart !     Enough 
Has  he  performed  for  glory,  and  can  now 
Live  for  himself  and  his.     To  his  domains 
Will  he  retire ;  he  has  a  stately  seat 
Of  fairest  view  at  Gitschin  ;  Reichenberg, 
And  Friedland  Castle,  both  lie  pleasantly  ; 
Even  to  the  foot  of  the  huge  mountains  here 
Stretches  the  chase  and  covers  of  his  forests : 

*  No  more  of  talk,  where  god  or  angel  guest 
With  man,  as  with  his  friend  familiar,  used 
To  sit  indulgent.  Paradise  Lost,  B.  IX, 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  227 

His  ruling  passion  to  create  the  splendid 

He  can  indulge  without  restraint ;  can  give 

A  princely  patronage  to  every  art, 

And  to  all  worth  a  sovereign's  protection. 

Can  build,  can  plant,  can  watch  the  starry  courses 

COUNTESS. 

Yet  I  would  have  you  look,  and  look  again, 
Before  you  lay  aside  your  arms,  young  friend ! 
A  gentle  bride,  as  she  is,  is  well  worth  it, 
That  you  should  woo  and  win  her  with  the  sword. 

MAX. 
Oh,  that  the  sword  could  win  her ! 

COUNTESS. 

What  was  that  ? 

Did  you  hear  nothing?     Secerned  as  if  I  heard 
Tumult  and  larum  in  the  banquet-room. 

\_Exit  COUNTESS. 

SCENE  V. 
THEKLA  and  M AX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

THEKLA  (as  soon  as  the  COUNTESS  is  out  of  sight,  in 

a  quick,  low  voice  to  PICCOLOMINI). 
Don't  trust  them  !     They  are  false ! 

MAX. 

Impossible ! 

THEKLA. 

Trust  no  one  here  but  me.     I  saw  at  once, 
They  had  a  purpose. 

MAX. 

Purpose  !  but  what  purpose  ? 
And  how  can  we  be  instrumental  to  it? 

THEKLA. 

I  know  no  more  than  you  ;  but  yet  believe  me : 
There's  some  design  in  this  ;  to  make  us  happy, 
To  realize  our  union  —  trust  me,  love ! 
They  but  pretend  to  wish  it. 


228  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

MAX 

But  these  Terzkys  — 

Why  use  we  them  at  all  ?    Why  not  your  mother  ? 
Excellent  creature !  she  deserves  from  us 
A  full  and  filial  confidence. 

THEKLA. 

She  doth  love  you, 

Doth  rate  you  high  before  all  others  —  but  — 
But  such  a  secret  —  she  would  never  have 
The  courage  to  conceal  it  from  my  father. 
For  her  own  peace  of  mind  we  must  preserve  it 
A  secret  from  her  too. 

MAX. 

Why  any  secret  ? 

I  love  not  secrets.     Mark  what  I  will  do. 
I'll  throw  me  at  your  father's  feet  —  let  him 
Decide  upon  my  fortunes !     He  is  true, 
He  wears  no  mask  —  he  hates  all  crooked  ways  — 
He  is  so  good,  so  noble  ! 

THEKLA  (fatts  on  his  neck). 
That  are  you ! 

MAX. 

You  knew  him  only  since  this  morn  !  but  I 
Have  lived  ten  years  already  in  his  presence  ; 
And  who  knows  whether  in  this  very  moment 
He  is  not  merely  waiting  for  us  both 
To  own  our  loves  in  order  to  unite  us  ? 
You  are  silent ! 

You  look  at  me  with  such  a  hopelessness ! 
What  have  you  to  object  against  your  father? 

THEKLA. 

I  ?    Nothing.     Only  he's  so  occupied  — 

He  has  no  leisure  time  to  think  about 

The  happiness  of  us  two.          [  Taking  his  hand  tenderly. 

Follow  me ! 

Let  us  not  place  too  great  a  faith  in  men. 
These  Terzkys  —  we  will  still  be  grateful  to  them 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  229 

For  every  kindness,  but  not  trust  them  further 
Than  they  deserve;  —  and  in  all  else  rely 
On  our  own  hearts  ! 

MAX. 

O  !  shall  we  e'er  be  happy  ? 

THEKLA. 

Are  we  not  happy  now  ?    Art  thou  not  mine  ? 

Am  I  not  thine  ?    There  lives  within  my  soul 

A  lofty  courage  —  'tis  love  gives  it  me ! 

I  ought  to  be  less  open  —  ought  to  hide 

My  heart  more  from  thee  — so  decorum  dictates: 

But  where  in  this  place  couldst  thou  seek  for  truth, 

If  in  my  mouth  thou  didst  not  find  it? 

We  now  have  met,  then  let  us  hold  each  other 

Clasped  in  a  lasting  and  a  firm  embrace. 

Believe  me  this  was  more  than  their  intent. 

Then  be  our  loves  like  some  blest  relic  kept 

Within  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart. 

From  heaven  alone  the  love  has  been  bestowed, 

To  heaven  alone  our  gratitude  is  due; 

It  can  work  wonders  for  us  still. 


SCENE  VI. 

To  them  enters  the  COUNTESS  TERZKY. 
COUNTESS  (in  a  pressing  manner). 

Come,  come ! 

My  husband  sends  me  for  you.     It  is  now 
The  latest  moment. 

[  They  not  appearing  to  attend  to  what  she  says, 
she  steps  beticeen  them. 
Part  you ! 

THEKLA. 

Oh,  not  yet ! 
It  has  been  scarce  a  moment. 

COUNTESS. 

Ay !    Then  time 
Flies  swiftly  with  your  highness,  princess  niece  ! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI. 
MAX. 

There  is  no  hurry,  aunt. 

COUNTESS. 

Away !  away ! 

The  folks  begin  to  miss  you.    Twice  already 
His  father  has  asked  for  him. 

THELKA. 

Ha .  his  father ! 

COUNTESS. 

You  understand  that,  niece  ! 

THEKLA. 

Why  needs  he 
To  go  at  all  to  that  society  ? 
'Tis  not  his  proper  company.     They  may 
Be  worthy  men,  but  he's  too  young  for  them ; 
In  brief,  he  suits  not  such  society. 

COUNTESS. 
You  mean,  you'd  rather  keep  him  wholly  here? 

THELKA  (with  energy). 

Yes  !  you  have  hit  it,  aunt !     That  is  my  meaning, 
Leave  him  here  wholly  !    Tell  the  company 

COUNTESS. 

What !  have  you  lost  your  senses,  niece  ? 
Count,  you  remember  the  conditions.    Come ! 

MAX.  (to  THELKA). 

Lady,  I  must  obey.     Farewell,  dear  lady ! 
[THELKA  turns  away  from  him  with  a  quick  motion. 
What  say  you  then,  dear  lady  ? 

THELKA  (without  looking  at  him). 

Nothing.    Go ! 
MAX. 

Can  I,  when  you  are  angry 

[He  draws  up  to  her,  their  eyes  meet,  she  stands 
silent  a  moment,  then  throws  herself  into  his 
arms  j  he  presses  her  fast  to  his  heart. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  231 

COUNTESS. 

Off !  Heavens  !  if  any  one  sh&uld  come  ! 

Hark!     What's  that  noise  !     It  comes  this  way.    Off! 

[MAX.  tears  himself  away  out  of  her  arms  and  goes. 
The  COUNTESS  accompanies  him.  THEKLA 
follows  him  with  her  eyes  at  first,  walks  restlessly 
across  the  room,  then  stops,  and  remains  stand- 
ing, lost  in  thought.  A  guitar  lies  on  the  table, 
she  seizes  it  as  by  a  sudden  emotion,  and  after 
she  has  played  awhile  an  irregular  and  melan- 
choly symphony,  she  falls  gradually  into  the 
music  and  sings. 

SCENE  VII. 

THEKLA  (plays  and  sings). 
The  cloud  doth  gather,  the  greenwood  roar, 
The  damsel  paces  along  the  shore  ; 
The  billows,  they  tumble  with  might,  with  might; 
And  she  flings  out  her  voice  to  the  darksome  night ; 

Her  bosom  is  swelling  with  sorrow  ; 
The  world  it  is  empty,  the  heart  will  die, 
There's  nothing  to  wish  for  beneath  the  sky : 
Thou  Holy  One,  call  thy  child  away ! 
I've  lived  and  loved,  and  that  was  to-day ; 

Make  ready  my  grave-clothes  to-morrow.* 

*  I  found  it  not  in  my  power  to  translate  this  song  with  literal  fidelity, 
preserving  at  the  same  time  the  Alcaic  movement,  and  have  therefore  added 
•the  original,  with  a  prose  translation.  Some  of  my  readers  may  be  more  for- 
tunate. 

THEKLA  (spielt  und  singt). 

Der  Eichwald  brauset,  die  Wolken  ziehn, 
Das  Magdlein  wandelt  an  Ufers  Grlin  ; 
Es  bricht  sich  die  Welle  mit  Macht,  mit  Macht, 
Und  sie  singt  hinaus  in  die  flnstre  Nacht, 

Das  Auge  von  Weinen  getriibet : 
Das  Herz  is  gestorben,  die  Welt  ist  leer, 
Und  weiter  giebt  sie  dem  Wunsche  nichts  raehr. 
Du  Heilige,  rufe  dein  Kind  zuriick, 
Ich  habe  genossen  das  irdische  GlUck, 

Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet. 

LITERAL  TRANSLATIONS 

THEKLA  ( plays  and  sings). 

The  oak-forest  bellows,  the  clouds  gather,  the  damsel  \valS8  to  and  fro  on 
the  green  of  the  shore  ;  the  wave  breaks  with  might,  Tl.'fo  might,  and  she 
sings  out  into  the  dark  night,  her  eye  discolored  with  weeping  :  the  heart 


232  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

SCENE  VIII. 
COUNTESS  (returns),  THELKA. 

COUNTESS. 

Fie,  lady  niece  !  to  throw  yourself  upon  him 
Like  a  poor  gift  to  one  who  cares  not  for  it, 
And  so  must  be  flung  after  him  !     For  you, 
Duke  Friedland's  only  child,  I  should  have  thought 
It  had  been  more  beseeming  to  have  shown  yourself 
More  chary  of  your  person. 

THEKLA  (rising). 

And  what  mean  you  ? 

COUNTESS. 

I  mean,  niece,  that  you  should  not  have  forgotten 
Who  you  are,  and  who  he  is.     But  perchance 
That  never  once  occurred  to  you. 

THEKLA. 

What  then? 

COUNTESS. 

That  you're  the  daughter  of  the  Prince  Duke  Friedland. 

THEKLA. 

Well,  and  what  farther  ? 

COUNTESS. 

What?  a  pretty  question ! 

is  dead,  the  world  is  empty,  and  further  gives  it  nothing  more  to  the  wish. 
ThouHoly  One  call  thy  child  home.  lliave  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  this 

TcknUrb^add^eKrmftation  of  this  song,  with  which  n,y  Men,., 
Charles  Lamb,  has  favored  me,  and  which  appears  to  me  to  have  caught 
the  happiest  manner  of  our  old  ballads  :  - 

The  clouds  are  blackening,  the  storms  threatening, 
The  cavern  doth  mutter,  the  greenwood  moan  I 

Billows  are  breaking,  the  damsel's  heart  aching, 
Thus  in  the  dark  night  she  singeth  alone, 
Her  eye  upward  roving  : 

The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  is  dead  surely, 
In  this  world  plainly  all  seemeth  amiss  ; 

To  thy  heaven,  Holy  One.  take  home  thy  little  one, 
I  have  partaken  of  all  earth's  bliss, 
Both  living  and  loving. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  235 

THEKLA. 

He  was  born  that  which  we  have  but  become. 
He's  of  an  ancient  Lombard  family, 
Son  of  a  reigning  princess. 

COUNTESS. 

Are  you  dreaming? 

Talking  in  sleep  ?     An  excellent  jest,  forsooth  ! 
We  shall  no  doubt  right  courteously  entreat  him 
To  honor  with  his  hand  the  richest  heiress 
In  Europe. 

THEKLA. 

That  will  not  be  necessary. 

COUNTESS. 
Methinks  'twere  well,  though,  not  to  run  the  hazard. 

THEKLA. 

His  father  loves  him  ;  Count  Octavio 
Will  interpose  no  difficulty 

COUNTESS. 

His! 
His  father  !    His  !     But  yours,  niece,  what  of  yours  ? 

THEKLA. 

Why,  I  begin  to  think  you  fear  his  father, 
So  anxiously  you  hide  it  from  the  man  ! 
His  father,  his,  I  mean. 

COUNTESS  (looks  at  her  as  scrutinizing). 
Niece,  you  are  false. 

THEKLA. 

Are  you  then  wounded  ?    O,  be  friends  with  me  ! 

COUNTESS. 

You  hold  your  game  for  won  already.     Do  not 
Triumph  too  soon  ! 

THEKLA  (interrupting  her,  and  attempting  to  soothe  her). 
Nay  now,  be  friends  with  me. 


234  THE    PICCOLOM1NI. 

COUNTESS. 

It  is  not  yet  so  far  gone. 

THEKLA. 

I  believe  you. 

COUNTESS. 

Did  you  suppose  your  father  had  laid  out 

His  most  important  life  in  toils  of  war, 

Denied  himself  each  quiet  earthly  bliss, 

Had  banished  slumbers  from  his  tent,  devoted 

His  noble  head  to  care,  and  for  this  only, 

To  make  a  happier  pair  of  you  ?     At  length 

To  draw  you  from  your  convent,  and  conduct 

In  easy  triumph  to  your  arms  the  man 

That  chanced  to  please  your  eyes  !   All  this,  methinks, 

He  might  have  purchased  at  a  cheaper  rate. 

THEKLA. 

That  which  he  did  not  plant  for  me  might  yet 
Bear  me  fair  fruitage  of  its  own  accord. 
And  if  my  friendly  and  affectionate  fate, 
Out  of  his  fearful  and  enormous  being, 
Will  but  prepare  the  joys  of  life  for  me 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  seest  it  with  a  lovelorn  maiden's  eyes, 
Cast  thine  eye  round,  bethink  thee  who  thou  art ;  — 
Into  no  house  of  joyance  hast  thou  stepped, 
For  no  espousals  dost  thou  find  the  walls 
Decked  out,  no  guests  the  nuptial  garland  wearing; 
Here  is  no  splendor  but  of  arms.     Or  thinkest  thou 
That  all  these  thousands  are  here  congregated 
To  lead  up  the  long  dances  at  thy  wedding ! 
Thou  see'st  thy  father's  forehead  full  of  thought, 
Thy  mother's  eye  in  tears:  upon  the  balance 
Lies  the  great  destiny  of  all  our  house. 
Leave  now  the  puny  wish,  the  girlish  feeling; 
Oh,  thrust  it  far  behind  thee  !     Give  thou  proof 
Thou'rt  the  daughter  of  the  mighty  —  his 
Who  where  he  moves  creates  the  wonderful. 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  235 

Not  to  herself  the  woman  must  belong, 

Annexed  and  bound  to  alien  destinies. 

But  she  performs  the  best  part,  she  the  wisest, 

Who  can  transmute  the  alien  into  self, 

Meet  and  disarm  necessity  by  choice ; 

And  what  must  be,  take  freely  to  her  heart, 

And  bear  and  foster  it  with  mother's  love. 

THEKLA. 

Such  ever  was  my  lesson  in  the  convent. 
I  had  no  loves,  no  wishes,  knew  myself 
Only  as  his  —  his  daughter — his,  the  mighty! 
His  fame,  the  echo  of  whose  blast  drove  to  me 
From  the  far  distance,  weakened  in  my  soul 
No  other  thought  than  this  —  I  am  appointed 
To  offer  myself  up  in  passiveness  to  him. 

COUNTESS. 

That  is  thy  fate.     Mould  thou  thy  wishes  to  it  — 
I  and  thy  mother  gave  thee  the  example. 

THEKLA. 

My  fate  hath  shown  me  him,  to  whom  behoves  it 
That  I  should  offer  up  myself.     In  gladness 
Him  will  I  follow. 

COUNTESS. 

Not  thy  fate  hath  shown  him  ! 
Thy  heart,  say  rather  —  'twas  thy  heart,  my  child  ! 

THEKLA. 

Faith  hath  no  voice  but  the  heart's  impulses. 
I  am  all  his  !     His  present  —  his  alone. 
Is  this  new  life,  which  lives  in  me  ?     He  hath 
A  right  to  his  own  creature.     What  was  I 
Ere  his  fair  love  infused  a  soul  into  me  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  wouldst  oppose  thy  father,  then,  should  he 
Have  otherwise  determined  with  thy  person  ? 

[THEKLA  remains  silent.     The  COUNTESS  continues. 
Thou  7neanest  to  force  him  to  thy  liking?     Child, 
His  name  is  Friedland. 


236  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

THEKLA. 

My  name  too  is  Friedland. 
He  shall  have  found  a  genuine  daughter  in  me. 

COUNTESS. 

What !  he  has  vanquished  all  impediment, 
And  in  the  wilful  mood  of  his  own  daughter 
Shall  a  new  struggle  rise  for  him  ?    Child  !  child  ! 
As  yet  thou  hast  seen  thy  father's  smiles  alone ; 
The  eye  of  his  rage  thou  hast  not  seen.     Dear  child, 
I  will  not  frighten  thee.     To  that  extreme, 
I  trust  it  ne'er  shall  come.     His  will  is  yet 
Unknown  to  me ;  'tis  possible  his  aims 
May  have  the  same  direction  as  thy  wish. 
But  this  can  never,  never  be  his  will, 
That  thou,  the  daughter  of  his  haughty  fortunes, 
Shouldest  e'er  demean  thee  as  a  lovesick  maiden 
And  like  some  poor  cost-nothing,  fling  thyself 
Toward  the  man,  who,  if  that  high  prize  ever 
Be  destined  to  await  him,  yet  with  sacrifices 
The  highest  love  can  bring,  must  pay  for  it. 

{Exit  COUNTESS. 

SCENE  IX. 

THEKLA  (who  during  the  last  speech  had  been  standing 

evidently  lost  in  her  reflections). 
I  thank  thee  for  the  hint.     It  turns 
My  sad  presentiment  to  certainty. 
And  it  is  so  !     Not  one  friend  have  we  here, 
Not  one  true  heart !  we've  nothing  but  ourselves  ! 
Oh,  she  said  rightly  —  no  auspicious  signs 
Beam  on  this  covenant  of  our  affections. 
This  is  no  theatre  where  hope  abides : 
The  dull  thick  noise  of  war  alone  stirs  here, 
And  love  himself,  as  he  were  armed  in  steel, 
Steps  forth,  and  girds  him  for  the  strife  of  death. 

[Music  from  the  banquet-room  is  heard. 
There's  a  dark  spirit  walking  in  our  house. 
And  swiftly  will  the  destiny  close  on  us. 
It  drove  me  hither  from  my  calm  asylum, 
It  mocks  my  soul  with  charming  witchery, 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  237 

It  lures  me  forward  in  a  seraph's  shape, 

I  see  it  near,  I  see  it  nearer  floating, 

It  draws,  it  pulls  me  with  a  godlike  power  — 

And  lo  !  the  abyss  —  and  thither  am  I  moving  — 

I  have  no  power  within  me  not  to  move ! 

[  The  music  from  the  banquet-room  becomes  louder. 
Oh,  when  a  house  is  doomed  in  fire  to  perish, 
Many  and  dark  Heaven  drives  his  clouds  together, 
Yea,  shoots  his  lightnings  down  from  sunny  heights, 
Flames  burst  from  out  the  subterraneous  chasms, 
And  fiends  and  angels,  mingling  in  their  fury, 
Sling  firebrands  at  the  burning  edifice.* 

[Exit  THEKLA. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

A  large  saloon  lighted  up  with  festal  splendor ;  in  the 
midst  of  it,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  a  table  richly 
set  out,  at  which  eight  generals  are  sitting,  among  whom 
are  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  TERZKY,  and  MARADAS. 
JKight  and  left  of  this,  but  further  back,  two  other 
tables,  at  each  of  which  six  persons  are  placed.  The 
middle  door,  which  is  standing  open,  gives  to  the 
prospect  a  fourth  table  with  the  same  number  of  per- 
sons. More  forward  stands  the  sideboard.  The  whole 
front  of  the  stage  is  kept  open  for  the  pages  and 
servants-in-waiting.  All  is  in  motion.  The  band  of 
music  belonging  to  TERZKY'S  regiment  march  across 
the  stage,  and  draw  up  around  the  tables.  -Before  they 
are  quite  off  from  the  front  of  the  stage,  MAX.  PICCO- 
LOMINI appears,  TERZKY  advances  towards  him  with  a 
paper,  ISOLANI  comes  up  to  meet  him  with  a  beaker, 
or  service-cup. 

*  There  are  few  who  will  not  have  taste  enough  to  laugh  at  the  two  con- 
cluding lines  of  this  soliloquy  :  and  still  fewer,  I  would  fain  hope,  who  would 
not  have  been  more  disposed  to  shudder,  had  I  given  a  faithful  translation. 
For  the  readers  of  German  I  have  added  the  original :  — 

Blind-wiithend  schleudert  selbst  der  Gott  der  Freude 
Den  Pechkranz  in  das  breunende  Gebaude. 


238  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

TERZKY,  ISOLANI,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

ISOLANI. 

Here,  brother,  what  we  love!     Why,  where  hast  been? 

Off  to  thy  place  —  quick !     Terzky  here  has  given 

The  mother's  holiday  wine  up  to  free  booty. 

Here  it  goes  on  as  at  the  Heidelberg  castle. 

Already  hast  thou  lost  the  best.     They're  giving 

At  yonder  table  ducal  crowns  in  shares ; 

There  Sternberg's  lands  and  chattels  are  put  up, 

With  Eggenberg's,  Stawata's,  Lichtenstein's, 

And  all  the  great  Bohemian  feudalities. 

Be  nimble,  lad !  and  something  may  turn  up 

For  thee,  who  knows?  off — to  thy  place!  quick!  march  ! 

TIEFENBACH  and  GOETz  (call  out  from  the  second  and 

third  tables). 
Count  Piccolomini ! 

TERZKY. 

Stop,  ye  shall  have  him  in  an  instant.     Read 
This  oath  here,  whether  'as  tis  here  set  forth, 
The  wording  satisfies  you.     They've  all  read  it, 
Each  in  his  turn,  and  each  one  will  subscribe 
His  individual  signature. 

MAX.  (reads). 
"Ingratis  servire  nefas." 

ISOLANI. 

That  sounds  to  my  ears  very  much  like  Latin, 
And  being  interpreted,  pray  what  may  it  mean  ? 

TERZKY. 
No  honest  man  will  serve  a  thankless  master. 

MAX. 

"  Inasmuch  as  our  supreme  commander,  the  illustrious 
Duke  of  Friedland,  in  consequence  of  the  manifold 
affronts  and  grievances  which  he  has  received,  had  ex- 
pressed his  determination  to  quit  the  emperor,  but  on 
our  unanimous  entreaty  has  graciously  consented  to  re- 
main still  with  the  army,  and  not  to  part  from  us  with- 
out our  approbation  thereof,  so  we,  collectively  and  each 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  239 

in  particular,  in  the  stead  of  an  oath  personally  taken, 
do  hereby  oblige  ourselves  —  likewise  by  him  honorably 
and  faithfully  to  hold,  and  in  nowise  whatsoever  from 
him  to  part,  and  to  be  ready  to  shed  for  his  interests  the 
last  drop  of  our  blood,  so  far,  namely,  as  our  oath  to  the 
emperor  will  permit  it.  ( These  last  words  are  repeated 
by  ISOLANI.)  In  testimony  of  which  we  subscribe  our 
names." 

TERZKY. 
Now !  are  you  willing  to  subscribe  to  this  paper? 

ISOLANI. 

Why  should  he  not  ?    All  officers  of  honor 
Can  do  it,  ay,  must  do  it.    Pen  and  ink  here ! 

TEEZKY. 
Nay,  let  it  rest  till  after  meal. 

ISOLANI  (drawing  MAX.  along). 
Come,  Max. 

[Both  seat  themselves  at  their  table. 

SCENE  II. 
TERZKY,  NEUMANN. 

TERZKY  (beckons  to  NEUMANN,  who  is  waiting  at  the  side- 
table  and  steps  forward  with  him  to  the  edge  of  the 
stage). 

Have  you  the  copy  with  you,  Neumann  ?    Give  it. 

It  may  be  changed  for  the  other  ? 

NEUMANN. 

I  have  copied  it 

Letter  by  letter,  line  by  line ;  no  eye 
Would  e'er  discover  other  difference, 
Save  only  the  omission  of  that  clause, 
According  to  your  excellency's  order. 

TERZKY. 

Right !  lay  it  yonder  and  away  with  this  — 

It  has  performed  its  business  —  to  the  fire  with  it. 

[NEUMANN  lays  the  copy  on  the  table,  and  steps  back 
again  to  the  side-table. 


240  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

SCENE  III. 
ILLO  (comes  out  from  the  second  chamber) ,  TERZKY. 

ILLO. 
How  goes  it  with  young  Piccolomini ! 

TERZKY. 

All  right,  I  think.     He  has  started  no  object 

ILLO. 

He  is  the  only  one  I  fear  about  — 
He  and  his  father.     Have  an  eye  on  both ! 

TERZKY. 

How  looks  it  at  your  table  :  you  forget  not 
To  keep  them  warm  and  stirring  ? 

ILLO. 

Oh,  quite  cordial, 

They  are  quite  cordial  in  the  scheme.     We  have  them 
And  'tis  as  I  predicted  too.     Already 
It  is  the  talk,  not  merely  to  maintain 
The  duke  in  station.     "Since  we're  once  for  all 
Together  and  unanimous,  why  not," 
Says  Montecuculi,  "  ay,  why  not  onward, 
And  make  conditions  with  the  emperor 
There  in  his  own  Venice?"     Trust  me,  count, 
Were  it  not  for  these  said  Piccolomini, 
We  might  have  spared  ourselves  the  cheat. 

TERZKY. 

And  Butler? 
How  goes  it  there  ?    Hush  ! 

SCENE  IV. 
To  them  enter  BUTLER  from  a  second  table. 

BUTLER. 

Don't  disturb  yourselves; 

Field-marshal,  I  have  understood  you  perfectly. 
Good  luck  be  to  the  scheme ;  and  as  to  me, 

[  With  an  air  of  mystery. 
You  may  depend  upon  me. 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  241 

ILLO  (with  vivacity), 

May  we,  Butler  ? 

BUTLER. 

With  or  without  the  clause,  all  one  to  me ! 

You  understand  me !     My  fidelity 

The  duke  may  put  to  any  proof  —  I'm  with  him ! 

Tell  him  so !     I'm  the  emperor's  officer, 

As  long  as  'tis  his  pleasure  to  remain 

The  emperor's  general !  and  Friedland's  servant, 

As  soon  as  it  shall  please  him  to  become 

His  own  lord. 

TERZKY. 

You  would  make  a  good  exchange. 
No  stern  economist,  no  Ferdinand, 
Is  he  to  whom  you  plight  your  services. 

BUTLER  (with  a  haughty  look). 

I  do  not  put  up  my  fidelity 

To  sale,  Count  Terzky  !     Half  a  year  ago 

I  would  not  have  advised  you  to  have  made  me 

An  overture  to  that,  to  which  I  now 

Offer  myself  of  my  own  free  accord. 

But  that  is  past !  and  to  the  duke,  field-marshal, 

I  bring  myself,  together  with  my  regiment. 

And  mark  you,  'tis  my  humor  to  believe, 

The  example  which  I  give  will  not  remain 

Without  an  influence. 

ILLO. 

Who  is  ignorant, 

That  the  whole  army  looks  to  Colonel  Butler 
As  to  a  light  that  moves  before  them  ? 

BUTLER. 

Ay? 

Then  I  repent  me  not  of  that  fidelity 
Which  for  the  length  of  forty  years  I  held, 
If  in  my  sixtieth  year  my  good  old  name 
Can  purchase  for  me  a  revenge  so  full. 
Start  not  at  what  I  say,  sir  generals  ! 
My  real  motives  —  they  concern  not  you. 


242  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

And  you  yourselves,  I  trust,  could  not  expect 
That  this  your  game  had  crooked  my  judgment  —  or 
That  fickleness,  quick  blood,  or  such  like  cause, 
Has  driven  the  old  man  from  the  track  of  honor, 
Which  he  so  long  had  trodden.     Come,  my  friends ! 
I'm  not  thereto  determined  with  less  firmness, 
Because  I  know  and  have  looked  steadily 
At  that  on  which  I  have  determined. 

ILLO. 

Say, 
And  speak  roundly,  what  are  we  to  deem  you  ? 

BUTLEB. 

A  friend  !  I  give  you  here  my  hand  !  Fm  yours 

With  all  I  have.     Not  only  men,  but  money 

Will  the  duke  want.     Go,  tell  him,  sirs ! 

I've  earned  and  laid  up  somewhat  in  his  service, 

I  lend  it  him ;  and  is  he  my  survivor, 

It  has  been  already  long  ago  bequeathed  to  him ; 

He  is  my  heir.     For  me,  I  stand  alone 

Here  in  the  world  ;  naught  know  I  of  the  feeling 

That  binds  the  husband  to  a  wife  and  children. 

My  name  dies  with  me,  my  existence  ends. 

ILLO. 

'Tis  not  your  money  that  he  needs  —  a  heart 
Like   yours   weighs  tons  of    gold    down,  weighs  down 
millions  1 

BUTLEB. 

I  came  a  simple  soldier's  boy  from  Ireland 

To  Prague  —  and  with  a  master,  whom  I  buried. 

From  lowest  stable  duty  I  climbed  up, 

Such  was  the  fate  of  war,  to  this  high  rank, 

The  plaything  of  a  whimsical  good  fortune. 

And  Wallenstein  too  is  a  child  of  luck : 

I  love  a  fortune  that  is  like  my  own. 

ILLO. 
All  powerful  souls  have  kindred  with  each  other. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI  243 

BUTLER. 

This  is  an  awful  moment !  to  the  brave, 

To  *he  determined,  an  auspicious  moment. 

The  Prince  of  Weimar  arms,  upon  the  Maine, 

To  found  a  mighty  dukedom.     He  of  Halberstadt, 

That  Mansfeldt,  wanted  but  a  longer  life 

To  have  marked  out  with  his  good  sword  a  lordship 

That  should  reward  his  courage.     Who  of  these 

Equals  our  Friedland  ?    There  is  nothing,  nothing 

So  high,  but  he  may  set  the  ladder  to  it ! 

TERZKY. 
That's  spoken  like  a  man ! 

BUTLER. 

Do  you  secure  the  Spaniard  and  Italian  — 
I'll  be  your  warrant  for  the  Scotchman  Lesly. 
Come  to  the  company! 

TERZKY. 

Where  is  the  master  of  the  cellar  ?     Ho  ! 

Let  the  best  wines  come  up.    Ho !  cheerly,  boy ! 

Luck  comes  to-day,  so  give  her  hearty  welcome. 

[Exeunt^  each  to  his  table. 

SCENE  V. 

The  MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR,  advancing  with  NEUMANN, 
SERVANTS  passing  backwards  and  forwards. 

MASTER   OP    THE    CELLAR. 

The  best  wine !  Oh,  if  my  old  mistress,  his  lady 
mother,  could  but  see  these  wild  goings  on  she  would 
turn  herself  round  in  her  grave.  Yes,  yes,  sir  officer !  'tis 
all  down  the  hill  with  this  noble  house  !  no  end,  no  mod- 
eration !  And  this  marriage  with  the  duke's  sister,  a 
splendid  connection,  a  very  splendid  connection !  but  I 
will  tell  you,  sir  officer,  it  looks  no  good. 

NEUMANN. 

Heaven  forbid !  Why,  at  this  very  moment  the  whole 
prospect  is  in  bud  and  blossom ! 


244  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

MASTER    OF    THE    CELLAB. 

You  think  so  ?  Well,  well !  much  may  be  said  on  that 
head. 

FIRST  SERVANT  (COmes). 

Burgundy  for  the  fourth  table. 

MASTER    OF    THE    CELLAR. 

Now,  sir  lieutenant,  if  this  aiut  the  seventieth  flask  — 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

Why,  the  reason  is,  that  German  lord,  Tiefenbach,  sits 
at  that  table. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  (continuing  his  discourse  to 
NEUMANN). 

They  are  soaring  too  high.  They  would  rival  kings  and 
electors  in  their  pomp  and  splendor ;  and  wherever  the 
duke  leaps,  not  a  minute  does  my  gracious  master,  the 
count,  loiter  on  the  brink —  (to  the  SERVANTS).  What  do 
you  stand  there  listening  for  ?  I  will  let  you  know  you 
have  legs  presently.  Off !  see  to  the  tables,  see  to  the 
flasks !  Look  there !  Count  Palfi  has  an  empty  glass 
before  him  I 

RUNNER  (comes). 

The  great  service-cup  is  wanted,  sir,  that  rich  gold  cup 
with  the  Bohemian  arms  on  it.  The  count  says  you  know 
which  it  is. 

MASTER   OF   THE    CELLAR. 

Ay !  that  was  made  for  Frederick's  coronation  by  the 
artist  William  —  there  was  not  such  another  prize  in  the 
whole  booty  at  Prague. 

RUNNER. 

The  same  !  —  a  health  is  to  go  round  in  him. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  (shaking  his  head  while  he 

fetches  and  rinses  the  cups). 

This  will  be  something  for  the  tale-bearers  —  this  goes 
to  Vienna. 

NEUMANN. 

Permit  me  to  look  at  it.  Well,  this  is  a  cup  indeed ! 
How  heavy !  as  well  it  may  be,  being  all  gold.  And  what 


THE   PIOCOLOMINI.  245 

neat  things  are  embossed  on  it !  how  natural  and  elegant 
they  look  !  There,  on  the  first  quarter,  let  rae  see.  That 
proud  amazon  there  on  horseback,  she  tnat  is  taking  a 
leap  over  the  crosier  and  mitres,  and  carries  on  a  wand  a 
hat  together  with  a  banner,  on  which  there's  a  goblet 
represented.  Can  you  tell  me  what  all  this  signifies  ? 

MASTER   OF   THE    CELLAR. 

The  woman  you  see  there  on  horseback  is  the  Free 
Election  of  the  Bohemian  Crown.  That  is  signified  by 
the  round  hat  and  by  that  fiery  steed  on  which  she  is 
riding.  The  hat  is  the  pride  of  man ;  for  he  who  cannot 
keep  his  hat  on  before  kings  and  emperors  is  no  free  man. 

NEUMANN. 

But  what  is  the  cup  there  on  the  banner. 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAR. 

The  cup  signifies  the  freedom  of  the  Bohemian  Church, 
as  it  was  in  our  forefathers'  times.  Our  forefathers  in  the 
wars  of  the  Hussites  forced  from  the  pope  this  noble 
privilege ;  for  the  pope,  you  know,  will  not  grant  the  cup 
to  any  layman.  Your  true  Moravian  values  nothing  be- 
yond the  cup;  it  is  his  costly  jewel,  and  has  cost  the 
Bohemians  their  precious  blood  in  many  and  many  a  battle. 

NEUMANN. 

And  what  says  that  chart  that  hangs  in  the  air  there, 
over  it  all  ? 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAR. 

That  signifies  the  Bohemian  letter-royal  which  we 
forced  from  the  Emperor  Rudolph  —  a  precious,  never  to 
be  enough  valued  parchment,  that  secures  to  the  new 
church  the  old  privileges  of  free  ringing  and  open 
psalmody.  But  since  he  of  Steiermark  has  ruled  over  us 
that  is  at  an  end  ;  and  after  the  battle  at  Prague,  in  which 
Count  Palatine  Frederick  lost  crown  and  empire,  our 
faith  hangs  upon  the  pulpit  and  the  altar  —  and  our 
brethren  look  at  their  homes  over  their  shoulders;  but 
the  letter-royal  the  emperor  himself  cut  to  pieces  with  his 
scissors. 


246  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

NEUMANN. 

Why,  my  good  Master  of  the  Cellar !  you  are  deep  read 
in  the  chronicles  of  your  country. 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAK. 

So  were  my  forefathers,  and  for  that  reason  were  they 
minstrels,  and  served  under  Procopius  and  Ziska.  Peace 
be  with  their  ashes !  Well,  well !  they  fought  for  a  good 
cause  though.  There !  carry  it  up ! 

NEUMANN. 

Stay !  let  me  but  look  at  this  second  quarter.  Look 
there!  That  is,  when  at  Prague  Castle,  the  imperial 
counsellors,  Martinitz  and  Stawata,  were  hurled  down 
head  over  heels.  'Tis  even  so !  there  stands  Count  Thur 
who  commands  it. 

[RUNNER  takes  the  service-cup  and  goes  off  with  it. 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAR. 

Oh,  let  me  never,  more  hear  of  that  day.  It  was  the 
three-and-twentieth  of  May  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one 
thousand  six  hundred  and  eighteen.  It  seems  to  me  as 
it  were  but  yesterday  —  from  that  unlucky  day  it  all  be- 
gan, all  the  heartaches  of  the  country.  Since  that  day  it 
is  now  sixteen  years,  and  there  has  never  once  been 
peace  on  the  earth. 

[Health  drunk  aloud  at  the  second  table. 

The  Prince  of  Weimar !     Hurrah  ! 

[At  the  third  and  fourth  tables. 

Long  live  Prince  William !  Long  live  Duke  Bernard  ! 
Hurrah  !  [Music  strikes  up. 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

Hear  'em !     Hear  'em !     What  an  uproar ! 

SECOND  SERVANT  (comes  in  running). 
Did  you  hear?    They  have  drunk  the  Prince  of  Wei- 
mar's health. 

THIRD    SERVANT. 

The  Swedish  chief  commander ! 

FIRST  SERVANT  (speaking  at  the  same  time). 
The  Lutheran ! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  247 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

Just  before,  when  Count  Deodati  gave  out  the  em- 
peror's health,  they  were  all  as  mum  as  a  nibbling  mouse. 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAR. 

Po,  po !  When  the  wine  goes  in  strange  things  come 
out.  A  good  servant  hears,  and  hears  not !  You  should 
be  nothing  but  eyes  and  feet,  except  when  you  are 
called  to. 

SECOND    SERVANT. 

[  To  the  RUNNER,  to  whom  he  gives  secretly  a  flask 
of  wine,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  MASTER  OF 
THE  CELLAR,  standing  between  him  and  the 
RUNNER. 

Quick,  Thomas !  before  the  Master  of  the  Cellar  runs 
this  way ;  'tis  a  flask  of  Frontignac  !  Snapped  it  up  at 
the  third  table.  Canst  go  off  with  it  ? 

RUNNER  (hides  it  in  his  pocket). 
All  right !  [Exit  the  Second  Servant. 

THIRD    SERVANT  (aside  tO  the  FIRST) 

Be  on  the  hark,  Jack !  that  we  may  have  right  plenty 
to  tell  to  Father  Quivoga.  He  will  give  us  right  plenty 
of  absolution  in  return  for  it. 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

For  that  very  purpose  I  am  always  having  something 
to  do  behind  Illo's  chair.  He  is  the  man  for  speeches  to 
make  you  stare  with. 

MASTER    OF    THE    CELLAR  (tO  NEUMANN). 

Who,  pray,  may  that  swarthy  man  be,  he  with  the 
cross,  that  is  chatting  so  confidently  with  Esterhats? 

NEUMANN. 

Ay,  he  too  is  one  of  those  to  whom  they  confide  too 
much.  He  calls  himself  Maradas ;  a  Spaniard  is  he. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  (impatiently). 
Spaniard  !  Spaniard !     I  tell  you,  friend,  nothing  good 
comes  of  those  Spaniards.     All  these  outlandish  fellows 
are  little  better  than  rogues 


248  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

NEUMANN. 

Fy,  fy !  you  should  not  say  so,  friend.  There  are 
among  them  our  very  best  generals,  and  those  on  whom 
the  duke  at  this  moment  relies  the  most. 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAR. 

[Taking  the  flask  out  of  the  RUNNER'S  pocket. 

My  son,  it  will  be  broken  to  pieces  in  your  pocket. 

[TERZKY  hurries  in,  fetches  away  the  paper,  and 
calls  to  a  servant  for  pen  and  ink,  and  goes  to 
the  back  of  the  stage. 

MASTER   OF    THE    CELLAR  (to  the  SERVANTS.) 

The  lieutenant-general  stands  up.     Be  on  the  watch. 
Now !     They  break  up.     Off,  and  move  back  the  forms. 
[  They  rise  at  all  the  tables,  the  SERVANTS  hurry 
off  the  front  of  the  stage  to  the  tables ;  part  of 
the  guests  come  forward. 

SCENE  VI. 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  enters,  in  conversation  with  MAR- 
ADAS,  and  both  place  themselves  quite  on  the  edge  of  the 
stage  on  one  side  of  the  proscenium.  On  the  side  di- 
rectly opposite,  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  by  himself,  lost  in 
thought,  and  taking  no  part  in  anything  that  is  going 
forward.  The  middle  space  between  both,  but  rather 
more  distant  from  the  edge  of  the  stage,  is  filled  up  by 
BUTLER,  ISOLANI,  GOETZ,  TIEFENBACH,  and  KOLATTO, 

ISOLANI  (while  the  company  is  coming  forward). 

Good-night,  good-night,  Kolatto!  Good-night,  lieu- 
tenant-general !  I  should  rather  say  good-morning. 

GOETZ  (to  TIEFENBACH). 

Noble  brother!  (making  the  usual  compliment  after 
meals). 

TIEFENBACH. 

Ay  !  'twas  a  royal  feast  indeed. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  249 

GOETZ. 

Yes,  ray  lady  countess  understands  these  matters.  Her 
mother-in-law,  heaven  rest  her  soul,  taught  herl  Ah! 
that  was  a  housewife  for  you  I 

TIEFENBACH. 

There  was  not  her  like  in  all  Bohemia  for  setting  out 
a  table. 

OCTAVIO  (aside  to  MARADAS). 

Do  me  the  favor  to  talk  to  me  —  talk  of  what  you  will 
—  or  of  nothing.  Only  preserve  the  appearance  at  least 
of  talking.  I  would  not  wish  to  stand  by  myself,  and 
yet  I  conjecture  that  there  will  be  goings  on  here  worthy 
of  our  attentive  observation.  (He  continues  to  fix  his  eye 
on  the  whole  following  scene.) 

ISOLANI  (on  the  point  of  going). 
Lights!  lights! 

TERZKY  (advances  with  the  paper  to  ISOLANI). 
Noble  brother ;  two  minutes  longer !      Here  is  some- 
thing to  subscribe. 

ISOLANI. 

Subscribe  as  much  as  you  like  —  but  you  must  excuse 
me  from  reading  it. 

TERZKY. 

There  is  no  need.  It  is  the  oath  which  you  have  al- 
ready read.  Only  a  few  marks  of  your  pen  ! 

[ISOLANI  hands  over  the  paper  to  OCTAVIO  re- 
spectfully. 

TERZKY. 

Nay,  nay,  first  come,  first  served.  There  is  no  prece- 
dence here.  [OCTAVIO  runs  over  thepaper  with  apparent 
indifference.  TERZKY  watches  him  at  some  distance. 

GOETZ  (tO  TERZKY). 

Noble  count !  with  your  permission  —  good-night. 

TERKZY. 

Where's  the  hurry?  Come,  one  other  composing 
draught.  (To  the  SERVANTS).  II<> ! 


250  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 


GOETZ. 

Excuse  me  —  aint  able. 

TEBZKY. 

A  thimble-full  ! 

GOETZ. 

Excuse  me. 

TIEFENBACH 


Pardon  me,  nobles!  This  standing  does  not  agree 
with  me. 

TEKZKY. 

Consult  your  own  convenience,  general. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Clear  at  head,  sound  in  stomach  —  only  my  legs  won't 
carry  me  any  longer. 

ISOLANI  (pointing  at  his  corpulence). 
Poor  legs  !  how   should    they  !      Such  an  unmerciful 
load! 

[OCTAVIO  subscribes  his  name,  and  reaches  over 
the  paper  to  TEKZKY,  who  gives  it  to  ISOLANI  ; 
and  he  goes  to  the  table  to  sign  his  name. 

TIEFENBACH. 

'Twas  that  war  in  Pomerania  that  first  brought  it  on. 
Out  in  all  weathers  —  ice  and  snow  —  no  help  for  it.  I 
shall  never  get  the  better  of  it  all  the  days  of  my  life. 

GOETZ. 

Why,  in  simple  verity,  your  Swedes  make  no  nice  in- 
quiries about  the  season. 

FERZKY  (observing  ISOLANI,  whose  hand  trembles  exces- 

sively so  that  he  can  scarce  direct  his  pen), 
Have  you  had  that  ugly  complaint  long,  noble  brother? 
Despatch  it. 

ISOLANI. 

The  sins  of  youth  !  I  have  already  tried  the  chaly- 
beate waters.  Well  —  I  must  bear  it. 

[TERZKY  gives  the  paper  to  MARADAS  ;  he  steps  to 
the  table  to  subscribe. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  251 

OCTAVTO  (advancing  to  BUTLER). 

You  are  not  over-fond  of  the  orgies  of  Bacchus,  colonel ! 
I  have  observed  it.  You  would,  I  think,  find  yourself 
more  to  your  liking  in  the  uproar  of  a  battle  than  of  a 
feast. 

BUTLER. 

I  must  confess  'tis  not  in  my  way. 

OCTAVIO  (stepping  nearer  to  himfriendlily). 

Nor  in  mine  neither,  I  can  assure  you ;  and  I  am  not  a 
little  glad,  my  much-honored  Colonel  Butler,  that  we 
agree  so  well  in  our  opinions.  A  half-dozen  good  friends 
at  most,  at  a  small  round  table,  a  glass  of  genuine  Tokay, 
open  hearts,  and  a  rational  conversation  —  that's  my  taste. 

BUTLER. 

And  mine,  too,  when  it  can  be  had. 

I  The  paper  comes  to  TIEFENBACH,  who  glances  over 
it  at  the  same  time  with  GOETZ  and  KOLATTO. 
MARADAS  in  the  meantime  returns  to  OCTAVIO. 
All  this  takes  places,  the  conversation  with  BUTLER 
proceeding  tinintemtpted. 

OCTAVIO  (introducing  MADARAS  to  BUTLER.) 
Don  Balthasar  Maradas  !  likewise  a  man  of  our  stamp, 
and  long  ago  your  admirer.  [BUTLER  bows. 

OCTAVIO  (continuing). 

You  are  a  stranger  here  —  'twas  but  yesterday  you 
arrived  —  you  are  ignorant  of  the  ways  and  means  here. 
'Tis  a  wretched  place.  I  know  at  your  age  one  loves  to 
be  snug  and  quiet.  What  if  you  move  your  lodgings '? 
Come,  be  my  visitor.  (BUTLER  makes  a  low  bow.)  Nay, 
without  compliment !  For  a  friend  like  you  I  have  still 
a  corner  remaining. 

BU_TLER  (coldly). 

Your  obliged  humble  servant,  my  lord  lieutenant-general. 
\_The  paper  comes  to  BUTLER,  who  goes  to  the  table 
to  subscribe  it.  The  front  of  the  stage  is  vacant, 
so  that  both  the  PICCOLOMINIS,  each  on  the  side 
where  he  had  been  from  the  commencement  of  the 
scene,  remain  alone. 


252  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO  (after  having  some  time  watched  his  son  in 
silence,  advances  somewhat  nearer  to  him). 

You  were  long  absent  from  us,  friend  ! 

MAX. 
\ urgent  business  detained  me. 

OCTAVIO. 
And,  I  observe,  you  are  still  absent ! 

MAX. 

You  know  this  crowd   and  bustle  always  makes  me 
silent. 

OCTAVIO  (advancing  still  nearer). 

May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  what  the  business  was  that 
detained  you  ?    Terzky  knows  it  without  asking. 

MAX. 

What  does  Terzky  know  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
He  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  miss  you. 

ISOLANI  (who  has  been  attending  to  them  for  some  distance 
steps  up). 

Well  done,  father !  Rout  out  his  baggage !  Beat  up  hii 
quarters  !  there  is  something  there  that  should  not  be. 

TERZKY  (with  the  paper). 
Is  there  none  wanting  ?    Have  the  whole  subscribed  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
All. 

TERZKY  (catting  aloud) 

Ho  !     Who  subscribes  ? 

BUTLER  (to  TERZKY). 
Count  the  names.    There  ought  to  be  just  thirty. 

TERZKY. 
Here  is  a  cross. 

TIEFENBACH. 

That's  my  mark ! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  253 

ISOLANI. 

He  cannot  write ;  but  his  cross  is  a  good  cross,  and  is 
honored  by  Jews  as  well  as  Christians. 

OCTAVIO  (presses  on  to  MAX.). 
Come,  general !  .let  us  go.    It  is  late. 

TfiEZKY. 

One  Piccolomini  only  has  signed. 

ISOLANI  (pointing  to  MAX.). 

Look !  that  is  your  man,  that  statue  there,  who  has 
had  neither  eye,  ear,  nor  tongue  for  us  the  whole  evening. 
[MAX.  receives  the  paper  from  TERZKY,  which  he  looks 
upon  vacantly. 

SCENE  VII. 

To  these  enter  ILLO  from,  the  inner  room.  Be  has  in  his 
hand  a  golden  service-cup,  and  is  extremely  distempered 
with  drinking;  GOETZ  an d  BUTLER  follow  him,  endeav- 
oring to  keep  him  back. 

ILLO. 

What  do  you  want !     Let  me  go. 

GOETZ  and  BUTLER. 

Drink  no  more,  Illo !  For  heaven's  sake,  drink  no 
more. 

ILLO  (goes  up  to  OCTAVIO,  and  shakes  him  cordially  by  the 

hand,  and  then  drinks). 

Octavio !  I  bring  this  to  you  !  Let  all  grudge  be 
drowned  in  this  friendly  bowl !  I  know  well  enough  you 
never  loved  me  —  devil  take  me!  and  I  never  loved  you! 
I  am  always  even  with  people  in  that  way !  Let  what's 
past  be  past  —  that  is,  you  understand  —  forgotten  !  I 
esteem  you  infinitely.  (Embracing  him  repeatedly.)  You 
have  not  a  dearer  friend  on  earth  than  I,  but  that  you 
know.  The  fellow  that  cries  rogue  to  you  calls  me  villain, 
and  I'll  strangle  him  !  my  dear  friend  ! 

TERZKY  (whispering  to  him). 

Art  in  thy  Senses  ?  For  heaven's  sake,  Illo,  think  where 
you  are ! 


254  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

ILLO  (aloud). 

What  do  you  mean  ?  There  are  none  but  friends  here, 
are  there?  (Looks  round  the  whole  circle  with  a  Jolly 
and  triumphant  air.)  Not  a  sneaker  amongst  us,  thank 
heaven ! 

TERZKY  (to  BUTLER,  eagerly). 

Take  him  off  with  you,  force  him  off,  I  entreat  you, 
Butler ! 

BUTLER  (to  ILLO). 

Field-marshal !  a  word  with  you.  (Leads  to  the  side- 
board). 

ILLO  (cordially). 

A  thousand  for  one.  Fill ;  fill  it  once  more  up  to  the 
brim.  To  this  gallant  man's  health ! 

ISOLANI  (to  MAX.,  who  all  the  while  has  been  staring  on  the 

paper  with  fixed  but  vacant  eyes). 
Slow  and  sure,  my  noble  brother !     Hast  parsed  it  all 
yet?    Some  words  yet  to  go  through?    Ha? 

MAX.  (waking  as  from  a  dream). 
What  am  I  to  do  ? 

TERZKY,  and  at  the  same  time  ISOLANI. 
Sign  your  name.    (OCTAVIO  directs  his  eyes  on  him  with 
intense  anxiety.) 

MAX.  (returns  the  paper). 

Let  it  stay  till  to-morrow.  It  is  business ;  to-day  I  am 
not  sufficiently  collected.  Send  it  to  me  to-morrow. 

TERZKY. 

Nay,  collect  yourself  a  little. 

TSOLAOT. 

Awake  man,  awake!  Come,  thy  signature,  and  have 
done  with  it!  What!  Thou  art  the  youngest  in  the 
whole  company,  and  would  be  wiser  than  all  of  us 
together !  Look  there  !  thy  father  has  signed ;  we  have 
all  signed. 

TERZKY  (to  OCTAVIO). 

Use  your  influence.    Instruct  him. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  255 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son  is  at  the  age  of  discretion. 

ILLO  (leaves  the  service-cup  on  the  sideboard). 
What's  the  dispute? 

TERZKT. 

He  declines  subscribing  the  paper. 

MAX. 
I  say  it  may  as  well  stay  till  to-morrow. 

ILLO. 

It  cannot  stay.  We  have  all  subscribed  to  it  —  and  BO 
must  you.  You  must  subscribe. 

MAX. 

Illo,  good-night ! 

ILLO. 

No !  you  come  not  off  so !  The  duke  shall  learn  who 
are  his  friends.  (All  collect  round  ILLO  and  MAX.) 

MAX. 

What  my  sentiments  are  towards  the  duke,  the  duke 
knows,  every  one  knows  —  what  need  of  this  wild  stuff  ? 

ILLO. 

This  is  the  thanks  the  duke  gets  for  his  partiality  to 
Italians  and  foreigners.  Us  Bohemians  he  holds  for  little 
better  than  dullards  —  nothing  pleases  him  but  what's 
outlandish 

TERZKY   (in  extreme  embarrassment,  to  the  Commanders, 
who  at  ILLO'S  words  give  a  sudden  start  as  preparing 
to  resent  them}. 
It  is  the  wine  that  speaks,  and  not  his  reason.     Attend 

not  to  him,  I  entreat  you. 

ISOLANI  (with  a  bitter  laugh). 
Wine  invents  nothing  :  it  only  tattles. 

ILLO. 

He  who  is  not  with  me  is  against  me.  Your  tender 
consciences  !  Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  back-door, 
by  a  puny  proviso 


256  THE  PICCOLOMINI. 

TERZKY  (interrupting  him). 
He  is  stark  mad  —  don't  listen  to  him! 

ILLO  (raising  his  voice  to  the  highest  pitch). 
Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  proviso.     What  of  the 
proviso  ?     The  devil  take  this  proviso  ! 

MAX  (has  his  attention  roused,  and  looks  again  into  the 

paper) . 

What  is  there  here  then  of  such  perilous  import  ?  You 
make  me  curious  —  I  must  look  closer  at  it. 

TERZKY  (in  a  low  voice  to  ILLO). 
What  are  you  doing,  Illo  ?    You  are  ruining  us. 

TIEFENBACH  (to  KOLATTO). 

Ay,  ay !     I   observed,   that   before   we   sat   down   tc 
supper,  it  was  read  differently. 

GOETZ. 
Why,  I  seemed  to  think  so  too. 

ISOLANI. 

What  do  I  care  for  that  ?    Where  there  stand  other 
names  mine  can  stand  too. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Before  supper  there  was  a  certain  proviso  therein,  or 
short  clause,  concerning  our  duties  to  the  emperor. 

BUTLER  (to  one  of  the  Commanders). 
For  shame,  for  shame!     Bethink  you.     What  is  the 
main  business  here  ?     The  question  now  is,  whether  we 
shall  keep  our  general,  or  let  him  retire.     One   must  not 
take  these  things  too  nicely,  and  over-scrupulously. 

ISOLANI  (to  one  of  the  Generals). 

Did  the  duke  make  any  of  these  provisos  when  he  gave 
you  your  regiment  ? 

TERZKY  (to  GOETZ). 

Or  when  he  gave  you  the  office  of  army-purveyancer, 
which  brings  you  in  yearly  a  thousand  pistoles ! 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  257 

ILLO. 

He  is  a  rascal  who  makes  us  out  to  be  rogues.  If  there 
be  any  one  that  wants  satisfaction,  let  him  say  so,  —  I 
am  his  man. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Softly,  softly  ?     'Twas  but  a  word  or  two. 

MAX.  (having  read  the  paper  gives  it  back). 
Till  to-morrow  therefore ! 

ILLO  (stammering  with  rage  and  fury,  loses  all  command 
over  himself  and  presents  the  paper  to  MAX.  with  one 
hand,  and  his  sword  in  the  other). 

Subscribe  —  Judas ! 

ISOLANI. 
Oat  upon  you,  Illo  ! 

OCTAVIO,  TEBZKY,  BUTLER  (oU  together). 
Down  with  the  sword ! 

MAX.  (rushes  on  him  suddenly  and  disarms  him,  then  to 

COUNT   TERZKY). 
Take  him  off  to  bed ! 

(MAX  leaves  the  stage.  ILLO  cursing  and  raving  is  held 
back  by  some  of  the  officers,  and  amidst  a  universal 
confusion  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 
A  Chamber  in  PICCOLOMINI'S  Mansion.    It  is  Night. 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI.      A  VALET   DE   CHAMBRE  with 
Lights. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  when  my  son  comes  in,  conduct  him  hither. 

What  is  the  hour  ? 

VALET. 

'Tis  on  the  point  of  morning. 


258  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

Set  down  the  light.     We  mean  not  to  undress. 
You  may  retire  to  sleep. 

\fkdt  VALET.  OCTAVIO  paces,  musing,  across  t_4 
chamber;  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  enters  unobservea, 
and  looks  at  his  father  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

MAX. 

Art  thou  offended  with  me  ?     Heaven  knows 

That  odious  business  was  no  fault  of  mine. 

'Tis  true,  indeed,  I  saw  thy  signature, 

What  thou  hast  sanctioned,  should  not,  it  might  seem, 

Have  come  amiss  to  me.     But — tis  my  nature  — 

Thou  know'st  that  in  such  matters  I  must  follow 

My  own  light,  not  another's. 

OCTAVIO  (goes  up  to  him  and  embraces  him) 

Follow  it, 

Oh,  follow  it  still  further,  my  best  son  ! 
To-night,  dear  boy !  it  hath  more  faithfully 
Guided  thee  than  the  example  of  thy  father. 

MAX. 
Declare  thyself  less  darkly. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  will  do  so ; 

For  after  what  has  taken  place  this  night, 
There  must  remain  no  secrets  'twixt  us  two. 

\_Both  seat  themselves. 
Max.  Piccolomini !  what  thinkest  thou  of 
The  oath  that  was  sent  round  for  signatures  ? 

MAX. 

I  hold  it  for  a  thing  of  harmless  import, 
Although  I  love-not  these  set  declarations. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  on  no  other  ground  hast  thou  refused 
The  signature  they  fain  had  wrested  from  thee? 

MAX. 

It  was  a  serious  business.    I  was  absent  — 
The  affair  itself  seemed  not  so  urgent  to  me. 


THE    PiCCOLOMINI.  259 

OCTAVIO. 

Be  open,  Max.     Thou  hadst  then  no  suspicion? 

MAX. 
Suspicion  !  what  suspicion  ?    Not  the  least. 

OCTAVIO. 

Thank  thy  good  angel,  Piccolomini ; 

He  drew  thee  back  unconscious  from  the  abyss. 

MAX. 
I  know  not  what  thou  meanest. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  will  tell  thee. 

Fain  would  they  have  extorted  from  thee,  son, 
The  sanction  of  thy  name  to  villany ; 
Yes,  with  a  single  flourish  of  thy  pen, 
Made  thee  renounce  thy  duty  and  thy  honor! 

MAX.  (rises). 
Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Patience  !  Seat  yourself.     Much  yet 
Hast  thou  to  hear  from  me,  friend  !     Hast  for  years 
Lived  in  incomprehensible  illusion. 
Before  thine  eyes  is  treason  drawing  out 
As  black  a  web  as  e'er  was  spun  for  venom : 
A  power  of  hell  o'erclouds  thy  understanding. 
I  dare  no  longer  stand  in  silence  —  dare 
No  longer  see  thee  wandering  on  in  darkness, 
Nor  pluck  the  bandage  from  thine  eyes. 

MAX. 

My  father ! 

Yet,  ere  thou  speakest,  a  moment's  pause  of  thought! 
If  your  disclosures  should  appear  to  be 
Conjectures  only  —  and  almost  I  fear 
They  will  be  nothing  further  —  spare  them !   I 
Am  not  in  that  collected  mood  at  present, 
That  I  conld  listen  to  them  quietly. 


2 GO  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 


OCTAVIO. 

The  deeper  cause  thou  hast  to  hate  this  light, 

The  more  impatient  cause  have  I,  my  son, 

To  force  it  on  thee.     To  the  innocence 

And  wisdom  of  thy  heart  I  could  have  trusted  thee 

With  calm  assurance  —  but  I  see  the  net 

Preparing  —  and  it  is  thy  heart  itself 

Alarms  me,  for  thine  innocence  —  that  secret, 

[Fixing  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  his  son's  face. 
Which  thou  concealest,  forces  mine  from  me. 

[MAX.  attempts  to  awswer,  but  hesitates,  and  casts 
his  eyes  to  the  ground  embarrassed. 

OCTAVIO  (after  a  pause}. 

Know,  then,  they  are  duping  thee !  —  a  most  foul  game 

With  thee  and  with  us  all  —  nay,  hear  me  calmly  — 

The  duke  even  now  is  playing.     He  assumes 

The  mask,  as  if  he  would  forsake  the  army ; 

And  in  this  moment  makes  he  preparations 

That  army  from  the  emperor  to  steal, 

And  carry  it  over  to  the  enemy ! 

MAX. 

That  low  priest's  legend  I  know  well,  but  did  not 
Expect  to  hear  it  from  thy  mouth. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  mouth, 

From  which  thou  hearest  it  at  this  present  moment, 
Doth  warrant  thee  that  it  is  no  priest's  legend. 

MAX. 

How  mere  a  maniac  they  supposed  the  duke  ; 
What,  he  can  meditate?  —  the  duke?  —  can  dream 
That  he  can  lure  away  full  thirty  thousand 
Tried  troops  and  true,  all  honorable  soldiers, 
More  than  a  thousand  noblemen  among  them, 
From  oaths,  from  duty,  from  their  honor  lure  them, 
And  make  them  all  unanimous  to  do 
A  deed  that  brands  them  scoundrels  ? 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  261 

OCTAVIO. 

Such  a  deed, 

With  such  a  front  of  infamy,  the  duke 
No  way  desires  —  what  he  requires  of  us 
Bears  a  far  gentler  appellation.     Nothing 
He  wishes  but  to  give  the  empire  peace. 
And  so,  because  the  emperor  hates  this  peace, 
Therefore  the  duke  —  the  duke  will  force  him  to  it. 
All  parts  of  the  empire  will  he  pacify, 
And  for  his  trouble  will  retain  in  payment 
(What  he  has  already  in  his  gripe)  —  Bohemia ! 

MAX. 

Has  he,  Octavio,  merited  of  us, 
That  we  —  that  we  should  think  so  vilely  of  him? 

OCTAVIO. 

What  we  would  think  is  not  the  question  here, 
The  affair  speaks  for  itself  —  and  clearest  proofs ! 
Hear  me,  my  son  —  'tis  not  unknown  to  thee, 
In  what  ill  credit  with  the  court  we  stand. 
But  little  dost  thou  know,  or  guess  what  tricks, 
What  base  intrigues,  what  lying  artifices, 
Have  been  employed  —  for  this  sole  end —  to  SOW 
Mutiny  in  the  camp  !     All  bands  are  loosed  — 
Loosed  all  the  bands  that  link  the  officer 
To  his  liege  emperor,  all  that  bind  the  soldier 
Affectionately  to  the  citizen. 
Lawless  he  stands,  and  threateningly  beleaguers 
The  state  he's  bound  to  guard.     To  such  a  height 
'Tis  swollen,  that  at  this  hour  the  emperor 
Before  his  armies  —  his  own  armies  —  trembles ; 
Yea,  in  his  capital,  his  palace,  fearj 
The  traitor's  poniard,  and  is  meditating 
To  hurry  off  and  hide  his  tender  offspring  — 
Not  from  the  Swedes,  not  from  the  Lutherans  —  no, 
From  his  own  troops  to  hide  and  hurry  them! 

MAX. 

Cease,  cease  !  thou  torturest,  shatterest  me.    I  know 
That  oft  we  tremble  at  an  empty  terror; 
But  the  false  phantasm  brings  a  real  misery. 


2G2  THE   F1CCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  is  no  phantasm.     An  intestine  war, 
Of  all  the  most  unnatural  and  cruel, 
Will  burst  out  into  flames,  if  instantly 
We  do  not  fly  and  stifle  it.     The  generals 
Are  many  of  them  long  ago  won  over ; 
The  subalterns  are  vacillating;  whole 
Regiments  and  garrisons  are  vacillating. 
To  foreigners  our  strongholds  are  intrusted ; 
To  that  suspected  Schafgotch  is  the  whole 
Force  of  Silesia  given  up  :  to  Terzky 
Five  regiments,  foot  and  horse ;  to  Isolani, 
To  Illo,  Kinsky,  Butler,  the  best  troops. 

MAX. 
Likewise  to  both  of  us. 

OCTAVIO. 

Because  the  duke 

Believes  he  has  secured  us,  means  to  lure  us 
Still  further  on  by  splendid  promises. 
To  me  he  portions  forth  the  princedoms,  Glatz 
And  Sagan ;  and  too  plain  I  see  the  bait 
With  which  he  doubts  not  but  to  catch  thee. 

MAX. 

No!  no! 
I  tell  thee,  no ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Oh,  open  yet  thine  eyes ! 

And  to  what  purpose  think'st  thou  he  has  called 
Hither  to  Pilsen  ?  to  avail  himself 
Of  our  advice?    Oh,  when  did  Friedland  ever 
Need  our  advice  ?     Be  calm,  and  listen  to  me. 
To  sell  ourselves  are  we  called  hither,  and 
Decline  we  that,  to  be  his  hostages. 
Therefore  doth  noble  Gallas  stand  aloof; 
Thy  father,  too,  thou  wouldst  not  have  seen  here, 
If  higher  duties  had  not  held  him  fettered. 

MAX. 

He  makes  no  secret  of  it —  needs  make  none  — 
That  we're  called  hither  for  his  sake  —  he  owns  it. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  263 

He  needs  our  aidance  to  maintain  himself  — 

He  did  so  much  for  us  ;  and  'tis  but  fair 

That  we,  too,  should  do  somewhat  now  for  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  know'st  thou  what  it  is  which  we  must  do? 
That  Illo's  drunken  mood  betrayed  it  to  thee. 
Bethink  thyself,  what  hast  thou  heard,  what  seen  ? 
The  counterfeited  paper,  the  omission 
Of  that  particular  clause,  so  full  of  meaning, 
Does  it  not  prove  that  they  would  bind  us  down 
To  nothing  good  ? 

MAX. 

That  counterfeited  paper 
Appears  to  me  no  other  than  a  trick 
Of  Illo's  own  device.     These  underhand 
Traders  in  great  men's  interests  ever  use 
To  urge  and  hurry  all  things  to  the  extreme. 
They  see  the  duke  at  variance  with  the  court, 
And  fondly  think  to  serve  him,  when  they  widen 
The  breach  irreparably.     Trust  me,  father, 
The  duke  knows  nothing  of  all  this. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  grieves  me 

That  I  must  dash  to  earth,  that  I  must  shatter 
A  faith  so  specious  ;  but  I  may  not  spare  thee  ! 
For  this  is  not  a  time  for  tenderness. 
Thou  must  take  measures,  speedy  ones,  must  act. 
I  therefore  will  confess  to  thee  that  all 
Which  I've  intrusted  to  thee  now,  that  all 
Which  seems  to  thee  so  unbelievable, 
That  —  yes,  I  will  tell  thee,  (a  pause)  Max.  !  I  had  it  all 
From  his  own  mouth,  from  the  duke's  mouth  I  had  it. 


(in  excessive  agitation). 
No!  no!  never  I 

OCTAVIO. 

Himself  confided  to  me 
What  I,  'tis  true,  had  long  before  discovered 
By  other  means;  himself  confined  to  me, 


2(54  THE    PiOCOLOMINI. 

That  'twas  his  settled  plan  to  join  the  Swedes ; 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  united  armies, 
Compel  the  emperor 

MAX. 

He  is  passionate, 

The  court  has  stung  him ;  he  is  sore  all  over 
With  injuries  and  affronts;  and  in  a  moment 
Of  irritation,  what  if  he,  for  once, 
Forgot  himself  ?    He's  an  impetuous  man. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  in  cold  blood  he  did  confess  this  to  me: 
And  having  construed  my  astonishment 
Into  a  scruple  of  his  power,  he  showed  me 
His  written  evidences  —  showed  me  letters, 
Both  from  the  Saxon  and  the  Swede,  that  gave 
Promise  of  aidance,  and  defined  the  amount. 

MAX. 

It  cannot  be !  —  cannot  be !  cannot  be  I 
Dost  thou  not  see,  it  cannot ! 
Thou  wouldst  of  necessity  have  shown  him 
Such  horror,  such  deep  loathing — that  or  he 
Had  taken  thee  for  his  better  genius,  or 
Thou  stood'st  not  now  a  living  man  before  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have  laid  open  my  objections  to  him, 
Dissuaded  him  with  pressing  earnestness  ; 
But  my  abhorrence,  the  full  sentiment 
Of  my  whole  heart  —  that  I  have  still  kept  sac 
To  my  own  consciousness. 

MAX. 

And  thou  hast  been 

So  treacherous  ?    That  looks  not  like  my  father! 
I  trusted  not  thy  words,  when  thou  didst  tell  me 
Evil  of  him  ;  much  less  can  I  now  do  it, 
That  thou  calumniatest  thy  own  self. 

OCTAVIO. 
I  did  not  thrust  myself  into  his  secrecy. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  265 

MAX. 

Uprightness  merited  his  confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 
He  was  no  longer  worthy  of  sincerity. 

MAX. 

Dissimulation,  sure,  was  still  less  worthy 
Of  thee,  Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Gave  I  him  a  cause 
To  entertain  a  scruple  of  my  honor  ? 

MAX. 
That  he  did  not  evinced  his  confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 

Dear  son,  it  is  not  always  possible 
Still  to  preserve  that  infant  purity 
Which  the  voice  teaches  in  our  inmost  heart, 
Still  in  alarm,  forever  on  the  watch 
Against  the  wiles  of  wicked  men :  e'en  virtue 
Will  sometimes  bear  away  her  outward  robes 
Soiled  in  the  wrestle  with  iniquity. 
This  is  the  curse  of  every  evil  deed 
That,  propagating  still,  it  brings  forth  evil. 
I  do  not  cheat  my  better  soul  with  sophisms; 
I  but  perform  my  orders  ;  the  emperor 
Prescribes  my  conduct  to  me.      Dearest  boy, 
Far  better  were  it,  doubtless,  if  we  all 
Obeyed  the  heart  at  all  times ;  but  so  doing, 
In  this  our  present  sojourn  with  bad  men, 
We  must  abandon  many  an  honest  object. 
'Tis  now  our  call  to  serve  the  emperor; 
By  what  means  he  can  best  be  served  —  the  heart 
May  whisper  what  it  will  —  this  is  our  call ! 

MAX. 

It  seems  a  thing  appointed,  that  to-day 
I  should  not  comprehend,  not  understand  thee. 
The  duke,  thou  sayest,  did  honestly  pour  out 
His  heart  to  thee,  but  for  an  evil  purpose : 


266  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

And  thou  dishonestly  hast  cheated  him 

For  a  good  purpose  !     Silence,  I  entreat  thee  — 

My  friend,  thou  stealest  not  from  me  — 

Let  me  not  lose  my  father ! 

OCTAVIO  (suppressing  resentment}. 
As  yet  thou  knowest  not  all,  my  son.     I  have 
Yet  somewhat  to  disclose  to  thee.       [After  a  pause. 

Duke  Friedland 

Hath  made  his  preparations.     He  relies 
Upon  the  stars.     He  deems  us  unprovided, 
And  thinks  to  fall  upon  us  by  surprise. 
Yea,  in  his  dream  of  hope,  he  grasps  already 
The  golden  circle  in  his  hand.     He  errs, 
We,  too,  have  been  in  action  —  he  but  grasps 
His  evil  fate,  most  evil,  most  mysterious ! 

MAX. 

Oh,  nothing  rash,  my  sire  !    By  all  that's  good, 
Let  me  invoke  thee  —  no  precipitation ! 

OCTAVIO. 

With  light  tread  stole  he  on  his  evil  way, 
And  light  of  tread  hath  vengeance  stole  on  after  him. 
Unseen  she  stands  already,  dark  behind  him  — 
But  one  step  more  —  he  shudders  in  her  grasp  ! 
Thou  hast  seen  Questenberg  with  me.     As  yet 
Thou  knowest  but  his  ostensible  commission : 
He  brought  with  him  a  private  one,  my  son  ! 
And  that  was  for  me  only. 

MAX. 

May  I  know  it  ? 

OCTAVIO  (seizes  the  patent). 

Max! 

[A  pause. 

In  this  disclosure  place  I  in  thy  hands 

The  empire's  welfare  and  thy  father's  life. 
Dear  to  thy  inmost  heart  is  Wallenstein  : 
A  powerful  tie  of  love,  of  veneration, 
Hath  knit  thee  to  him  from  thy  earliest  youth. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  267 

Thou  nourishest  the  wish,  —  0  let  me  still 
Anticipate  thy  loitering  confidence ! 
The  hope  thou  nourishest  to  knit  thyself 
Yet  closer  to  him 


MAX. 

Father 
OCTAVIO. 


Oh,  my  son ! 


I  trust  thy  heart  undoubtingly.  But  am 
Equally  sure  of  thy  collectedness  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  able,  with  calm  countenance, 
To  enter  this  man's  presence,  when  that  I 
Have  trusted  to  thee  his  whole  fate  ? 

MAX. 

According 
As  thou  dost  trust  me,  father,  with  his  crime. 

[OCTAVIO  takes  a  paper  out  of  his  escritoire 
and  gives  it  to  him. 

MAX. 
What  I  how !  a  full  imperial  patent ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Read  it. 

MAX.  (just  glances  on  it). 
Duke  Friedland  sentenced  and  condemned ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Even  so. 

MAX.  (throws  down  the  paper). 
Oh,  this  is  too  much !    O  unhappy  error ! 

OCTAVIO. 
Read  on.    Collect  thyself. 

MAX,  (after  he  has  read  further,  with  a  look  of  affright 
and  astonishment  on  his  father). 

How!  what!     Thou!  thou! 


268  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 


OCTAVIO. 

But  for  the  present  moment,  till  the  King 
Of  Hungary  may  safely  join  the  army, 
Is  the  command  assigned  to  me. 

MAX. 

And  think'st  thou, 

Dost  thou  believe,  that  thou  wilt  tear  it  from  him  ? 
Oh,  never  hope  it !     Father  !  father  !  father ! 
An  inauspicious  office  is  enjoined  thee. 
This  paper  here  !  —  this  !   and  wilt  thou  enforce  it  ? 
The  mighty  in  the  middle  of  his  host, 
Surrounded  by  his  thousands,  him  wouldst  thou 
Disarm  —  degrade  !   Thou  art  lost,  both  thou  and  all  of  us. 

OCTAVIO. 

What  hazard  I  incur  thereby,  I  know. 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand.      The  Almighty 
Will  cover  with  his  shield  the  imperial  house, 
And  shatter,  in  his  wrath,  the  work  of  darkness. 
The  emperor  hath  true  servants  still ;  and  even 
Here  in  the  camp,  there  are  enough  brave  men 
Who  for  the  good  cause  will  fight  gallantly. 
The  faithful  have  been  warned  —  the  dangerous 
Are  closely  watched.     I  wait  but  the  first  step, 
And  then  immediately 

MAX. 

What !  on  suspicion  ? 
Immediately  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

The  emperor  is  no  tyrant. 
The  deed  alone  he'll  punish,  not  the  wish. 
The  duke  hath  yet  his  destiny  in  his  power. 
Let  him  but  leave  the  treason  uncompleted, 
He  will  be  silently  displaced  from  office, 
And  make  way  to  his  emperor's  royal  son. 
An  honorable  exile  to  his  castles 
Will  be  a  benefaction  to  him  rather 
Than  punishment.     But  the  first  open  step 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  269 


MAX. 

What  callest  thou  such  a  step  ?    A  wicked  step 
Ne'er  will  he  take ;  but  thou  mightest  easily, 
Yea,  thou  hast  done  it,  misinterpret  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

N"ay,  howsoever  punishable  were 

Duke  Friedland's  purposes,  yet  still  the  steps 

Which  he  hath  taken  openly  permit 

A  mild  construction.     It  is  my  intention 

To  leave  this  paper  wholly  unenforced 

Till  some  act  is  committed  which  convicts  him 

Of  high  treason,  without  doubt  or  plea, 

And  that  shall  sentence  him. 

MAX. 

But  who  the  judge 

OCTAVIO. 
Thyself. 

MAX. 

Forever,  then,  this  paper  will  lie  idle. 

OCTAVIO. 

Too  soon,  I  fear,  its  powers  must  all  be  proved. 
After  the  counter-promise  of  this  evening, 
It  cannot  be  but  he  must  deem  himself 
Secure  of  the  majority  with  us ; 
And  of  the  army's  general  sentiment 
He  hath  a  pleasing  proof  in  that  petition, 
Which  thou  delivered'st  to  him  from  the  regiments. 
Add  this  too  —  I  have  letters  that  the  Rhinegrave 
Hath  changed  his  route,  and  travels  by  forced  marches 
To  the  Bohemian  forests.     What  this  purports 
Remains  unknown  ;  and,  to  confirm  suspicion, 
This  night  a  Swedish  nobleman  arrived  here. 

MAX. 

I  have  thy  word.    Thou'lt  not  proceed  to  action 
Before  thou  hast  convinced  me  —  me  myself. 


270  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  it  possible  ?    Still,  after  all  thou  know'st, 
Canst  thou  believe  still  in  his  innocence  ? 

MAX.  (with  enthusiasm). 
Thy  judgment  may  mistake ;  my  heart  cannot. 

[Moderates  his  voice  and  manner, 
These  reasons  might  expound  thy  spirit  or  mine ; 
But  they  expound  not  Friedland  —  I  have  faith: 
For  as  he  knits  his  fortunes  to  the  stars, 
Even  so  doth  he  resemble  them  in  secret, 
Wonderful,  still  inexplicable  courses ! 
Trust  me,  they  do  him  wrong.     All  will  be  solved. 
These  smokes  at  once  will  kindle  into  flame  — 
The  edges  of  this  black  and  stormy  cloud 
Will  brighten  suddenly,  and  we  shall  view 
The  unapproachable  glide  out  in  splendor. 

OCTAVIO. 
I  will  await  it. 

SCENE  II. 

OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  as  before.      To  them  the  VALET  OP 
THE  CHAMBER. 

OCTAVIO. 
How  now,  then  ? 

VALET. 

A  despatch  is  at  the  door. 

OCTAVIO. 
So  early  ?    From  whom  comes  he  then  ?    Who  is  it  ? 

VALET. 
That  he  refused  to  tell  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Lead  him  in : 
And,  hark  you  —  let  it  not  transpire. 

[Exit  VALET  :  the  CORNET  steps  in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Ha !  cornet  —  is  it  you  ;  and  from  Count  Gallas  ? 
Give  me  your  letters. 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  27] 


Trusted  it  not  to  letters. 


CORNET. 

The  lieutenant-general 


OCTAVIO. 

And  what  is  it  ? 
CORNET. 
He  bade  me  tell  you  —  Dare  I  speak  openly  here? 

OCTAVIO. 
My  son  knows  all. 

CORNET. 

We  have  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

Whom  ?      . 

CORNET. 

Sesina, 
The  old  negotiator. 

OCTAVIO  (eagerly). 
And  you  have  him  ? 

CORNET. 

In  the  Bohemian  Forest  Captain  Mohrbrand 
Found  and  secured  him  yester-morning  early. 
He  was  proceeding  then  to  Regensburg, 
And  on  him  were  despatches  for  the  Swede. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  the  despatches 

CORNET. 

The  lieutenant-general 
Sent  them  that  instant  to  Vienna,  and 
The  prisoner  with  them. 

OCTAVIO. 

This  is,  indeed,  a  tiding! 
That  fellow  is  a  precious  casket  to  us, 
Enclosing  weighty  things.     Was  much  found  on  him  ? 

CORNET. 
I  think,  six  packets,  with  Count  Terzky's  arms. 


272  THE   PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

None  in  the  duke's  own  hand  ? 

CORNET. 

Not  that  I  know. 
OCTAVIO. 
And  old  Sesina? 

CORNET. 

He  was  sorely  frightened, 
When  it  was  told  him  he  must  to  Vienna ; 
But  the  Count  Altringer  bade  him  take  heart, 
Would  he  but  make  a  full  and  free  confession. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  Altringer  then  with  your  lord  ?    I  heard 
That  he  lay  sick  at  Linz. 

CORNET. 

These  three  days  past 

He's  with  my  master,  the  lieutenant-general, 
At  Frauenburg.     Already  have  they  sixty 
Small  companies  together,  chosen  men ; 
Respectfully  they  greet  you  with  assurances, 
That  they  are  only  waiting  your  commands. 

OCTAVIO. 

In  a  few  days  may  great  events  take  place. 
And  when  must  you  return  ? 

CORNET. 

I  wait  your  orders. 
OCTAVIO. 

Remain  till  evening. 

[CORNET  signifies  his  assent  and  obeisance,  and  is  going. 

No  one  saw  you  —  ha? 

CORNET. 

No  living  creature.     Through  the  cloister  wicket 
The  capuchins,  as  usual,  let  me  in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Go,  rest  your  limbs,  and  keep  yourself  concealed. 
I  hold  it  probable  that  yet  ere  evening 
I  shall  despatch  you.     The  development 


THE    PICCOLOMINI.  273 

Of  this  affair  approaches :  ere  the  day, 
That  even  now  is  dawning  in  the  heaven, 
Ere  this  eventful  day  hath  set,  the  lot 
That  must  decide  our  fortunes  will  be  drawn. 

[Exit  COKNET. 

SCENE  III. 
OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 

Well  —  and  what  now,  son  ?    All  will  soon  be  clear ; 
For  all,  I'm  certain,  went  through  that  Sesina. 

MAX.  (who  through  the  whole  of  the  foregoing  scene  has 
been  in  a  violent  and  visible  struggle  of  feelings,  at 
length  starts  as  one  resolved). 

I  will  procure  me  light  a  shorter  way. 
Farewell. 

OCTAVIO. 

Where  now  ?    Remain  here. 

MAX. 

To  the  Duke. 
OCTAVIO  (alarmed). 

What 

MAX.  (returning). 

If  thou  hast  believed  that  I  shall  act 
A  part  in  this  thy  play,  thou  hast 
Miscalculated  on  me  grievously. 
My  way  must  be  straight  on.     True  with  the  tongue, 
False  with  the  heart  —  I  may  not,  cannot  be  : 
Nor  can  I  suffer  that  a  man  should  trust  me  — 
As  his  friend  trust  me  —  and  then  lull  my  conscience 
With  such  low  pleas  as  these :  "  I  ask  him  not  — 
He  did  it  all  at  his  own  hazard  —  and 
My  mouth  has  never  lied  to  him."     No,  no ! 
What  a  friend  takes  me  for,  that  I  must  be. 
I'll  to  the  duke  ;  ere  yet  this  day  is  ended 
Will  I  demand  of  him  that  he  do  save 
His  good  name  from  the  world,  and  with  one  stride 
Break  through  and  rend  this  fine-spun  web  of  yours. 


274  THE    PICCOLOMINI. 

He  can,  he  will !     I  still  am  his  believer, 

Yet  I'll  not  pledge  myself,  but  that  those  letters 

May  furnish  you,  perchance,  with  proofs  against  him. 

How  far  may  not  this  Terzky  have  proceeded  — 

What  may  not  he  himself  too  have  permitted 

Himself  to  do,  to  snare  the  enemy, 

The  laws  of  war  excusing  ?     Nothing,  save 

His  own  mouth  shall  convict  him  —  nothing  less  ! 

And  face  to  face  will  I  go  question  him. 

OCTAVIO. 
Thou  wilt? 

MAX. 

I  will,  as  sure  as  this  heart  beats. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have,  indeed,  miscalculated  on  thee. 
I  calculated  on  a  prudent  son, 
Who  would  have  blessed  the  hand  beneficent 
That  plucked  him  back  from  the  abyss  —  and  lo  ! 
A  fascinated  being  I  discover, 
Whom  his  two  eyes  befool,  whom  passion  wilders, 
Whom  cot  the  broadest  light  of  noon  can  heal. 
Go,  question  him  !     Be  mad  enough,  I  pray  thee. 
The  purpose  of  thy  father,  of  thy  emperor, 
Go,  give  it  up  free  booty  !     Force  me,  drive  me 
To  an  open  breach  before  the  time.     And  now, 
Now  that  a  miracle  of  heaven  had  guarded 
My  secret  purpose  even  to  this  hour, 
And  laid  to  sleep  suspicion's  piercing  eyes, 
Let  me  have  lived  to  see  that  mine  own  son, 
With  frantic  enterprise,  annihilates 
My  toilsome  labors  and  state  policy. 

MAX. 

Ay  —  this  state  policy  !     Oh,  how  I  curse  it! 
You  will  some  time,  with  your  state  policy, 
Compel  him  to  the  measure  :  it  may  happen, 
Because  ye  are  determined  that  he  is  guilty, 
Guilty  ye'll  make  him.     All  retreat  cut  off, 
You  close  up  every  outlet,  hem  him  in 
Narrower  and  narrower,  till  at  length  ye  force  him  — 


THE   PICCOLOMINI.  275 

Yes,  ye,  ye  force  him,  in  his  desperation, 

To  set  fire  to  his  prison.    Father !  father ! 

That  never  can  end  well  —  it  cannot  —  will  not ! 

And  let  it  be  decided  as  it  may, 

I  see  with  boding  heart  the  near  approach 

Of  an  ill-starred,  unblest  catastrophe. 

For  this  great  monarch-spirit,  if  he  fall, 

Will  drag  a  world  into  the  ruin  with  him. 

And  as  a  ship  that  midway  on  the  ocean 

Takes  fire,  at  once,  and  with  a  thunder-burst 

Explodes,  and  with  itself  shoots  out  its  crew 

In  smoke  and  ruin  betwixt  sea  and  heaven ! 

So  will  he,  falling,  draw  down  in  his  fall 

All  us,  who' re  fixed  and  mortised  to  his  fortune, 

Deem  of  it  what  thou  wilt ;  but  pardon  me, 

That  I  must  bear  me  on  in  my  own  way. 

All  must  remain  pure  betwixt  him  and  me  ; 

And,  ere  the  daylight  dawns,  it  must  be  known 

Which  I  must  lose  —  my  father  or  my  friend. 

[During  his  exit  the  curtain  drops. 


THE  DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 


DEAMATIS  PERSONS. 


\VALLEK«TEIN,  Duke  of  Friedland, 
Generulissimo  of  the  Imperial 
Forces  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War. 

DUCHESS  OF  FREIDLAND,  Wife  of 
\Vallenstein. 

THEKLA.  her  Daughter,  Princess  of 
Friedland. 

THE  COUNTESS  TEKZKY,  Sister  of 
the  Duchess. 

LADY  NEUBKUNX. 

OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  Lieutenant- 
General. 

MAX.  PICCOLOMINI,  his  Son,  Colonel 
of  a  Regiment  of  Cuirassiers. 

COUNT  TEKZKY,  the  Commander  of 
several  Regiments,  and  Brother-in- 
law  of  Wallenstein. 

ILLO,  Field-Marshal,  Wallenstein'* 
Confidant. 

ISOLANI,  General  of  the  Croats. 


BUTLEB,  an  Irishman,  Commander 
of  a  Regiment  of  Dragoons. 

GORDON,  Governor  of  Egra. 

MAJOR  GERALDIN. 

CAPTAIN  DEVKREUX. 

CAPTAIN  MAODONALD. 

AN  ADJUTANT. 

NEUMANN,  Captain  of  Cavalry,  Aide- 
de-Camp  to  Terzky. 

COLONEL  WRANGEL,  Envoy  from  the 
Swedes. 

ROSENBURG,  Master  of  Horse. 

SWEDISH  CAPTAIN. 

SENI. 

BURGOMASTER  of  Egra. 

ANSPESSADE  of  the  Cuirassiers. 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAM- I   Bel      ^ 

APARGE.  \totheDuke. 

Cuirassiers,  Dragoons,  and  Servants. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A  room  fitted  up  for  astrological  labors,  and  provided 
with  celestial  charts,  with  globes,  telescopes,  quadrants, 
and  other  mathematical  instruments.  Seven  colossal 
figures,  representing  the  planets,  each  with  a  transpar- 
ent star  of  different  color  on  its  head,  stand  in  a  semi- 
circle in  the  background,  so  that  Mars  and  Saturn 
are  nearest  the  eye.  The  remainder  of  the  scene  and 
its  disposition  is  given  in  the  fourth  scene  of  the  sec- 
ond act.  There  must  be  a  curtain  over  the  figures,  which 
may  be  dropped  and  conceal  them  on  occasions. 

[In  the  fifth  scene  of  this  act  it  must  be  dropped '  but  in 
the  seventh  scene  it  must  be  again  drawn  up  wholly  or 
in  part. 1 
•N 


THE    DEATH   OF    WALLENSTEIN.  277 

WALLENSTEIN  at  a  black  table,  on  which  a  speculum 
astrologicum  is  described  with  chalk.  Siarc  is  taking 
observations  through  a  window. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

All  well  —  and  now  let  it  be  ended,  Seni.     Come, 
The  dawn  commences,  and  Mars  rules  the  hour ; 
We  must  give  o'er  the  operation.    Come, 
We  know  enough. 

SENI. 

Your  highness  must  permit  me 
Just  to  contemplate  Venus.     She  is  now  rising : 
Like  as  a  sun  so  shines  she  in  the  east. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

She  is  at  present  in  her  perigee, 

And  now  shoots  down  her  strongest  influences. 

[Contemplating  the  figure  on  the  table. 
Auspicious  aspect!  fateful  in  conjunction, 
At  length  the  mighty  three  corradiate  ; 
And  the  two  stars  of  blessing,  Jupiter 
And  Venus,  take  between  them  the  malignant 
Slyly-malicious  Mars,  and  thus  compel 
Into  my  service  that  old  mischief-founder : 
For  long  be  viewed  me  hostilely,  and  ever 
With  beam  oblique,  or  perpendicular, 
Now  in  the  Quartile,  now  in  the  Secundan, 
Shot  his  red  lightnings  at  my  stars,  disturbing 
Their  blessed  influences  and  sweet  aspects : 
Now  they  have  conquered  the  old  enemy, 
And  bring  him  in  the  heavens  a  prisoner  to  me. 

SENT  (who  has  come  down  from  the  window). 
And  in  a  corner-house,  your  highness  —  think  of  that ! 
That  makes  each  influence  of  double  strength. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  sun  and  moon,  too,  in  the  Sextile  aspect, 
The  soft  light  with  the  vehement  —  so  I  love  it. 
Sol  is  the  heart,  Luna  the  head  of  heaven, 
Bold  be  the  plan,  fiery  the  execution. 


278  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEOT." 

8ENI. 

And  both  the  mighty  Lumina  by  no 
Maleficus  affronted.  Lo  !  Saturnus, 
Innocuous,  powerless,  in  cadente  Domo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  empire  of  Saturnus  is  gone  by ; 

Lord  of  the  secret  birth  of  things  is  he ; 

Within  the  lap  of  earth,  and  in  the  depths 

Of  the  imagination  dominates ; 

And  his  are  all  things  that  eschew  the  light. 

The  time  is  o'er  of  brooding  and  contrivance, 

For  Jupiter,  the  lustrous,  lordeth  now, 

And  the  dark  work,  complete  of  preparation, 

He  draws  by  force  into  the  realm  of  light. 

Now  must  we  hasten  on  to  action,  ere 

The  scheme,  and  most  auspicious  positure 

Parts  o'er  my  head,  and  takes  once  more  its  flight, 

For  the  heaven's  journey  still,  and  adjourn  not. 

[  There  are  knocks  at  the  door, 
There's  some  one  knocking  there.     See  who  it  is 

TERZKY  (from  without). 
Open,  and  let  me  in. 

WALLENSTEHf. 

Ay  — 'tis  Terzky. 
What  is  there  of  such  urgence  ?    We  are  busy. 

TERZKY  (from  without). 
Lay  all  aside  at  present,  I  entreat  you; 
It  suffers  no  delaying. 

\TALLENSTEm. 

Open,  Seni ! 

[  While  SENI  opens  the  door  for  TERZKY,  WALLENSTET^ 
draws  the  curtain  over  the  figures, 

SCENE  IT. 
WALLENSTEIN.     COUNT  TERZKY. 

TBRSKY  (enters). 

Hast  thou  already  heard  it?    He  is  taken. 
Gallas  has  given  him  up  to  the  emperor. 

[SENI  draws  off  the  black  fable,  and  exit. 


THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEDT.  279 

WALLENSTEIN  (to  TERZKT?)- 

Who  has  been  taken  ?    Who  is  given  up  ? 

TEBZKV. 

The  man- who  knows  our  secrets,  who  knows  every 

Negotiation  with  the  Swede  and  Saxon, 

Through  whose  hands  all  and  everything  has  passed 

WALLENSTEIN  (drawing  back). 
Nay,  not  Sesina  ?    Say,  no !  I  entreat  thee. 

TERZKY. 

All  on  his  road  for  Regensburg  to  the  Swede 
He  was  plunged  down  upon  by  Gallas'  agent, 
Who  had  been  long  in  ambush,  lurking  for  him. 
There  must  have  been  found  on  him  my  whole  packet 
To  Thur,  to  Kinsky,  to  Oxenstiern,  to  Arnheim : 
All  this  is  in  their  hands ;  they  have  now  an  insight 
Into  the  whole  —  our  measures  and  our  motives. 

SCENE  III. 
To  them  enters  ILLO. 
ILLO  (to  TERZKY). 
Has  he  heard  it? 

TERZKY. 

He  has  heard  it. 
ILLO  (to  WALLENSTEIN). 

Thinkest  thou  still 

To  make  thy  peace  with  the  emperor,  to  regain 
His  confidence  ?    E'en  were  it  now  thy  wish 
To  abandon  all  thy  plans,  yet  still  they  know 
What  thou  hast  wished:  then  forwards  thou  must  press; 
Retreat  is  now  no  longer  in  thy  power. 

TERZKY. 

They  have  documents  against  us,  and  in  hands, 
Which  snow  beyond  all  power  of  contradiction  — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of  "^handwriting — no  iota.    Thee 
«r  thy  lies. 


280  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

ILLO. 

And  them  believest, 

That  what  this  man,  and  what  thy  sister's  husband. 
Did  in  thy  name,  will  not  stand  on  thy  reckoning? 
His  word  must  pass  for  thy  word  with  the  Swede, 
And  not  with  those  that  hate  thee  at  Vienna  ? 

TERZKY. 

In  writing  thou  gavest  nothing ;  but  bethink  thee, 
How  far  thou  venturedst  by  word  of  mouth 
With  this  Sesina!     And  will  he  be  silent? 
If  he  can  save  himself  by  yielding  up 
Thy  secret  purposes,  will  he  retain  them  ? 

ILLO. 

Thyself  dost  not  conceive  it  possible ; 
And  since  they  now  have  evidence  authentic 
How  far  thou  hast  already  gone,  speak !  tell  us, 
What  art  thou  waiting  for?     Thou  canst  no  longer 
Keep  thy  command ;  and  beyond  hope  of  rescue 
Thou'rt  lost  if  thou  resign 'st  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  the  army 

Lies  my  security.     The  army  will  not 
Abandon  me.     Whatever  they  may  know, 
The  power  is  mine,  and  they  must  gulp  it  down  • 
And  if  I  give  them  caution  for  my  fealty, 
They  must  be  satisfied,  at  least  appear  so. 

ILLO. 

The  army,  duke,  is  thine  now ;  for  this  moment 
'Tis  thine :  but  think  with  terror  on  the  slow, 
The  quiet  power  of  time.     From  open  violence 
The  attachment  of  thy  soldiery  secures  thee 
To-day,  to-morrow :  but  grant'st  thou  them  a  respite, 
Unheard,  unseen,  they'll  undermine  that  love 
On  which  thou  now  dost  feel  so  firm  a  footing, 
With  wily  theft  will  draw  away  from  thee 
One  after  the  other 

WALLENSTEHT. 

'Tis  a  cursed  accident t 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  281 

ILLO. 

Oh !  I  will  call  it  a  most  blessed  one, 
If  it  work  on  thee  as  it  ought  to  do, 
Hurry  thee  on  to  action  —  to  decision. 
The  Swedish  general  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He's  arrived !    Know'st  thou 
What  his  commission  is 

ILLO. 

To  thee  alone 
Will  he  intrust  the  purpose  of  his  coming. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  cursed,  cursed  accident !    Yes,  yes, 
Sesina  knows  too  much,  and  won't  be  silent. 

TERZKT. 

He's  a  Bohemian  fugitive  and  rebel, 

His  neck  is  forfeit.     Can  he  save  himself 

At  thy  cost,  think  you  he  will  scruple  it  ? 

And  if  they  put  him  to  the  torture,  will  he, 

Will  he,  that  dastardling,  have  strength  enough  — 

WALLENSTEIN  (lost  in  thought). 
Their  confidence  is  lost,  irreparably ! 
And  I  may  act  which  way  I  will,  I  shall 
Be  and  remain  forever  in  their  thought 
A  traitor  to  my  country.     How  sincerely 
Soever  I  return  back  to  my  duty, 
It  will  no  longer  help  me 

ILLO. 

Ruin  thee, 

That  it  will  do !     Not  thy  fidelity, 
Thy  weakness  will  be  deemed  the  sole  occasion 

WALLENSTEIN  (pacing  up  and  down  in  extreme  agitation). 

What !     I  must  realize  it  now  in  earnest, 

Because  I  toyed  too  freely  with  the  thought! 

Accursed  he  who  dallies  with  a  devil! 

And  must  I  —  I  must  realize  it  now  — 

Now,  while  I  have  the  power,  it  must  take  place! 


282  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTELN. 

ILLO. 
Now —  now— -  ere  they  can  ward  and  parry  it! 

WALLENSTEIN  (looking  at  the  paper  of  signatures). 
I  have  the  generals'  word  —  a  written  promise  ! 
Max.  Piccolomini  stands  not  here  —  how's  that  ? 

TEBZKY. 

It  was  —  he  fancied 

ILLO. 

Mere  self-willedness. 
There  needed  no  such  thing  'twixt  him  and  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  is  quite  right ;  there  needed  no  such  thing. 
The  regiments,  too,  deny  to  march  for  Flanders 
Have  sent  me  in  a  paper  of  remonstrance, 
And  openly  resist  the  imperial  orders. 
The  first  step  to  revolt's  already  taken. 

ILLO. 

Believe  me,  thou  wilt  find  it  far  more  easy 
To  lead  them  over  to  the  enemy 
Than  to  the  Spaniard. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  will  hear,  however, 
What  the  Swede  has  to  say  to  me. 

ILLO  (eagerly  to  TERZKY). 

Go,  call  him, 
He  stands  without  the  door  in  waiting. 

WALLENSTBJOf. 

Stay! 

k  tay  but  a  little.     It  hath  taken  me 

All  by  surprise ;  it  came  too  quick  upon  me; 

'Tis  wholly  novel  that  an  accident, 

W>h  its  dark  lordship,  and  blind  agency, 

Shoui  i  force  me  on  with  it. 

II  LO. 

First  hear  him  only, 
A»x    fter  weigh  it.  [Exeunt  TEBZKY  atta  ILLO. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

• 

SCENE  IV. 

WALLENSTEIN  (in  soliloquy). 

Is  it  possible  ? 

le't  so  ?    I  can  no  longer  what  I  would  ? 
No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking?    I 
Must  do  the  deed,  because  I  thought  of  it  ? 
And  fed  this  heart  here  with  a  dream  ?    Because 
I  did  not  scowl  temptation  from  my  presence, 
Dallied  with  thoughts  of  possible  fulfilment, 
Commenced  no  movement,  left  all  time  uncertain, 
And  only  kept  the  road,  the  access  open  ? 
By  the  great  God  of  Heaven  !  it  was  not 
My  serious  meaning,  it  was  ne'er  resolved. 
I  but  amused  myself  with  thinking  of  it. 
The  free-will  tempted  me,  the  power  to  dc 
Or  not  to  do  it.     Was  it  criminal 
To  make  the  fancy  minister  to  hope, 
To  fill  the  air  with  pretty  toys  of  air, 
And  clutch  fantastic  sceptres  moving  toward  me? 
Was  not  the  will  kept  free  ?    Beheld  I  not 
The  road  of  duty  close  beside  me  —  but 
One  little  step,  and  once  more  I  was  in  it ! 
Where  am  I  ?     Whither  have  I  been  transported  ? 
No  road,  no  track  behind  me,  but  a  wall, 
Impenetrable,  insurmountable, 
Rises  obedient  to  the  spells  I  muttered 
And  meant  not  —  my  own  doings  tower  behind  me. 

[Pauses  and  remains  in  deep  th&ught. 
A  punishable  man  Iseem,  the  guilt, 
Try  what  I  \v  ill,  I  cannot  roll  off  from  me ; 
The  equivocal  demeanor  of  my  life 
Bears  witness  on  my  prosecutor's  party. 
And  even  my  purest  acts  from  purest  motives 
Suspicion  poisons  with  malicious  gloss. 
Were  I  that  thing  for  which  I  pass,  that  traitor, 
A  goodly  outside  I  had  sure  reserved, 
Had  drawn  the  coverings  thick  and  double  round 
Been  calm  and  chary  of  my  utterance  ; 
But  being  conscious  of  the  innocence 
Of  my  intent,  my  ifncorrupted  will, 


284  THE    DEATH   OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

• 

I  gave  way  to  my  humors,  to  my  passion : 
Bold  were  my  words,  because  my  deeds  were  not 
Now  every  planless  measure,  chance  event, 
The  threat  of  rage,  the  vaunt  of  joy  and  triumph, 
And  all  the  May-games  of  a  heart  overflowing, 
Will  they  connect,  and  weave  them  all  together 
Into  one  web  of  treason  ;  all  will  be  plan, 
My  eye  ne'er  absent  from  the  far-off  mark, 
Step  tracing  step,  each  step  a  politic  progress ; 
And  out  of  all  they'll  fabricate  a  charge 
So  specious,  that  I  must  myself  stand  dumb. 
I  am  caught  in  my  own  net,  and  only  force, 
Naught  but  a  sudden  rent  can  liberate  me. 

[Pauses  again* 

How  else !  since  that  the  heart's  unbiased  instinct 
Impelled  me  to  the  daring  deed,  which  now 
Necessity,  self-preservation,  orders. 
Stern  is  the  on-look  of   necessity, 
Not  without  shudder  may  a  human  hand 
Grasp  the  mysterious  urn  of  destiny. 
My  deed  was  mine,  remaining  in  my  bosom; 
Once  suffered  to  escape  from  its  safe  corner 
Within  the  heart,  its  nursery  and  birthplace, 
Sent  forth  into  the  foreign,  it  belongs 
Forever  to  those  sly  malicious  powers 
Whom  never  art  of  man  conciliated. 

[Paces  in  agitation  through  the  chamber,  then 
pauses,  and,  after  the  pa  use,  breaks  out  again 
into  audible  soliloquy. 

What  it  thy  enterprise?  thy  aim?  thy  object? 
Hast  honestly  confessed  it  to  thyself? 
Power  seated  on  a  quiet  throne  thovi'dst  shake, 
Power  on  an  ancient,  consecrated  throne, 
Strong  in  possession,  founded  in  all  custom ; 
Power  by  a  thousand  tough  and  stringy  roots 
Fixed  to  the  people's  pious  nursery  faith. 
This,  this  will  be  no  strife  of  strength  with  strength. 
That  feared  I  not.     I  brave  each  combatant, 
Whom  I  can  look  on,  fixing  eye  to  eye, 
Who,  full  himself  of  courage,  kindles  courage 
In  me  too.     'Tis  a  foe  invisible 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN  285 

The  which  I  fear  —  a  fearful  enemy, 

Which  in  the  human  heart  opposes  me, 

By  its  coward  fear  alone  made  fearful  to  me. 

Not  that,  which  full  of  life,  instinct  with  power, 

Makes  known  its  present  being ;  that  is  not 

The  true,  the  perilously  formidable. 

O  no !  it  is  the  common,  the  quite  common, 

The  thing  of  an  eternal  yesterday. 

Whatever  was,  and  evermore  returns, 

Sterling  to-morrow,  for  to-day  'twas  sterling! 

For  of  the  wholly  common  is  man  made, 

And  custom  is  his  nurse  !     Woe  then  to  them 

Who  lay  irreverent  hands  upon  his  old 

House  furniture,  the  dear  inheritance 

From  his  forefathers !     For  time  consecrates ; 

And  what  is  gray  with  age  becomes  religion. 

Be  in  possession,  and  thou  hast  the  right, 

And  sacred  will  the  many  guard  it  for  thee ! 

\_To  the  PAGE,  who  here  enters. 
The  Swedish  officer?    Well,  let  him  enter. 

[  The  PAGE  exit,  WALLENSTEIN  fixes  his  eye  in 

deep  thought  on  the  door. 

Yet,  it  is  pure  —  as  yet !  —  the  crime  has  come 
Not  o'er  this  threshold  yet  —  so  slender  is 
The  boundary  that  divideth  life's  two  paths. 

SCENE  V. 
WALLENSTEIN  and  WRANGEL. 

WALLENSTEIN  (after  having  fixed  a  searching  look  on 
him). 

Your  name  is  Wrangel  ? 

WRANGEL. 

Gustave  Wrangel,  General 
Of  the  Sudermanian  Blues. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  a  Wrangel 

Who  injured  me  materially  at  Stralsund, 
And  by  his  brave  resistance  was  the  cause 
Of  the  opposition  which  that  seaport  made. 


286        THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 
WRANOEL. 

It  was  the  doing  of  the  element 

With  which  you  fought,  my  lord !  and  not  my  merit 

The  Baltic  Neptune  did  assert  his  freedom  : 

The  sea  and  land,  it  seemed  were  not  to  serve 

One  and  the  same. 

WALLENSTEIN 

You  plucked  the  admiral's  hat  from  off  my  head. 

WRANGEL. 

I  come  to  place  a  diadem  thereon. 

WALLENSTEIN  (makes  the  motion  for  him  to  take  a 
seat,  and  seats  himself). 

And  where  are  your  credentials: 
Come  you  provided  with  full  powers,  sir  general  ? 

WRANGEL. 

There  are  so  many  scruples  yet  to  solve 

WALLENSTEIN  (having  read  the  credentials). 
An  able  letter !    Ay  —  he  is  a  prudent, 
Intelligent  master  whom  you  serve,  sir  general  1 
The  chancellor  writes  me  that  he  but  fulfils 
His  late  departed  sovereign's  own  idea 
In  helping  me  to  the  Bohemian  crown. 

WEANGEL. 

He  says  the  truth.     Our  great  king,  now  in  heaven, 

Did  ever  deem  most  highly  of  your  grace's 

Pre-eminent  sense  and  military  genius  ; 

And  always  the  commanding  intellect, 

He  said,  should  have  command,  and  be  the  king. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  he  might  say  it  safely.     General  Wrangel, 

[  Taking  his  hand  affectionately. 
Come,  fair  and  open.     Trust  me,  I  was  always 
A  Swede  at  heart.    Eh !  that  did  you  experience 
Both  in  Silesia  and  at  Nuremberg ; 
I  had  you  often  in  my  power,  and  let  you 
Always  slip  out  by  some  back  door  or  other. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  287 

'Tis  this  for  which  the  court  can  ne'er  forgive  me, 
Which  drives  me  to  this  present  step  :  and  since 
Our  interests  so  run  in  one  direction, 
E'en  let  us  have  a  thorough  confidence 
Each  in  the  other. 

WRANGEL. 

Confidence  will  come 
Has  each  but  only  first  security. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  chancellor  still,  I  see,  does  not  quite  trust  me ; 
And,  I  confess  —  the  game  does  not  lie  wholly 
To  my  advantage.     Without  doubt  he  thinks, 
If  I  can  play  false  with  the  emperor, 
Who  is  my  sovereign,  I  can  do  the  like 
With  the  enemy,  and  that  the  one,  too,  were 
Sooner  to  be  forgiven  me  than  the  other. 
Is  not  this  your  opinion,  too,  sir  general? 

WKANGEL. 

I  have  here  a  duty  merely,  no  opinion. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  emperor  hath  urged  me  to  the  uttermost : 

I  can  no  longer  honorably  serve  him. 

For  my  security,  in  self-defence, 

I  take  this  hard  step,  which  my  conscience  blames. 

WKANGEL. 

That  I  believe.     So  far  would  no  one  go 

Who  was  not  forced  to  it.  [After  a  pause. 

What  may  have  impelled 
Your  princely  highness  in  this  wise  to  act 
Toward  your  sovereign  lord  and  emperor, 
Beseems  not  us  to  expound  or  criticise. 
The  Swede  is  fighting  for  his  good  old  cause, 
With  his  good  sword  and  conscience.     This  concurrence, 
This  opportunity  is  in  our  favor, 
And  all  advantages  in  war  are  lawful. 
We  take  what  offers  without  questioning; 
And  if  all  have  its  due  and  just  proportions  — — 


288  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of  what  then  are  ye  doubting  ?    Of  my  will  ? 

Or  of  my  power?    I  pledged  me  to  the  chancellor, 

Would  he  trust  me  with  sixteen  thousand  men, 

That  I  would  instantly  go  over  to  them 

With  eighteen  thousand  of  the  emperor's  troops. 

WRANGEL. 

Your  grace  is  known  to  be  a  mighty  war-chief, 
To  be  a  second  Attila  and  Pyrrhus. 
'Tis  talked  of  still  with  fresh  astonishment, 
How  some  years  past,  beyond  all  human  faith, 
You  called  an  army  forth  like  a  creation  : 
But  yet 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  yet? 

WRANGEL. 

But  still  the  chancellor  thinks 
It  might  yet  be  an  easier  thing  from  nothing 
To  call  forth  sixty  thousand  men  of  battle, 
Than  to  persuade  one-sixtieth  part  of  them 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now  ?    Out  with  it,  friend  ? 

WRANGEL. 

To  break  their  oaths. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  he  thinks  so  ?    He  judges  like  a  Swede, 

And  like  a  Protestant.     You  Lutherans 

Fight  for  your  Bible.     You  are  interested 

About  the  cause ;  and  with  your  hearts  you  follow 

Your  banners.     Among  you  whoe'er  deserts 

To  the  enemy  hath  broken  covenant 

With  two  lords  at  one  time.     We've  no  such  fancies. 

WRANGEL. 

Great  God  in  heaven  !     Have  then  the  people  here 
No  house  and  home,  no  fireside,  no  altar  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  will  explain  that  to  you,  how  it  stands : 
The  Austrian  has  a  country,  ay,  and  loves  it, 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTElN.  289 

And  lias  good  cause  to  love  it  — but  this  army 
That  calls  itself  the  imperial,  this  that  houses 
Here  in  Bohemia,  this  has  none  —  no  country ; 
This  is  an  outcast  of  all  foreign  lands, 
Unclaimed  by  town  or  tribe,  to  whom  belongs 
Nothing  except  the  universal  sun. 
And  this  Bohemian  land  for  which  we  fight 
Loves  not  the  master  whom  the  chance  of  war, 
Not  its  own  choice  or  will,  hath  given  to  it. 
Men  murmur  at  the  oppression  of  their  conscience, 
And  power  hath  only  awed  but  not  appeased  them. 
A  glowing  and  avenging  memory  lives 
Of  cruel  deeds  committed  on  these  plains ; 
How  can  the  son  forget  that  here  his  father 
Was  hunted  by  the  bloodhound  to  the  mass? 
A  people  thus  oppressed  must  still  be  feared, 
Whether  they  suffer  or  avenge  their  wrongs. 

WRANGEL. 

But  then  the  nobles  and  the  officers  ? 
Such  a  desertion,  such  a  felony, 
It  is  without  example,  my  lord  duke, 
In  the  world's  history. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

They  are  all  mine  — 

Mine  unconditionally  —  mine  on  all  terms. 
Not  me,  your  own  eyes  you  must  trust. 

\_He  gives  him  the  paper  containing  the  written  oath. 
WRANGEL  reads  it  through,  and,  having  read  it, 
lays  it  on  the  table,  remaining  silent. 

So  then ; 
Now  comprehend  you? 

WRANGEL. 

Comprehend  who  can ! 

My  lord  duke,  I  will  let  the  mask  drop  — yes  ! 
I've  full  powers  for  a  final  settlement. 
The  Rhinegrave  stands  but  four  days'  march  from  here 
With  fifteen  thousand  men,  and  only  waits 
For  orders  to  proceed  and  join  your  army. 
These  orders  I  give  out  immediately 
We're  compromised. 


290  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  asks  the  chancellor? 

WE  ANGEL  (considerately). 

Twelve  regiments,  every  man  a  Swede  —  my  head 
The  warranty  —  and  all  might  prove  at  last 
Only  false  play 

WALLENSTEIN  (starting). 
Sir  Swede! 

WE  ANGEL  (calmly  proceeding). 

Am  therefore  forced 
To  insist  thereon,  that  he  do  formally, 
Irrevocably  break  with  the  emperor, 
Else  not  a  Swede  is  trusted  to  Duke  Friedlaad. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come,  brief  and  open  !     What  is  the  demand? 

WEANGEL. 

That  he  forthwith  disarm  the  Spanish  regiments 
Attached  to  the  emperor,  that  he  seize  on  Prague, 
And  to  the  Swedes  give  up  that  city,  with 
The  strong  pass  Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That  is  much  indeed  ! 
Prague !  —  Egra' s  granted  —  but  —  but  Prague 

'Twon't  do. 

I  give  you  every  security 

Which  you  may  ask  of  me  in  common  reason  — 
But  Prague  —  Bohemia  —  these,  sir  general, 
I  can  myself  protect. 

WEANGEL. 

We  doubt  it  not. 

But  'tis  not  the  protection  that  is  now 
Our  sole  concern.     We  want  security, 
That  we  shall  not  expend  our  men  and  money 
All  to  no  purpose. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  but  reasonable. 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.        291 
WRANGEL. 

And  till  we  are  indemnified,  so  long 
Stays  Prague  in  pledge. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Then  trust  you  us  so  little  ? 
WBANGEL  (rising). 

The  Swede,  if  he  would  treat  well  with  the  German, 

Must  keep  a  sharp  lookout.     We  have  been  called 

Over  the  Baltic,  we  have  saved  the  empire 

From  ruin  —  with  our  best  blood  have  we  sealed 

The  liberty  of  faith  and  gospel  truth. 

But  now  already  is  the  benefaction 

No  longer  felt,  the  load  alone  is  felt. 

Ye  look  askance  with  evil  eye  upon  us, 

As  foreigners,  intruders  in  the  empire, 

And  would  fain  send  us  with  some  paltry  sum 

Of  money,  home  again  to  our  old  forests. 

No,  no!  my  lord  duke  !  it  never  was 

For  Judas'  pay,  for  chinking  gold  and  silver, 

That  we  did  leave  our  king  by  the  Great  Stone.* 

No,  not  for  gold  and  silver  have  there  bled 

So  many  of  our  Swedish  nobles  —  neither 

Will  we,  with  empty  laurels  for  our  payment, 

Hoist  sail  for  our  own  country.     Citizens 

Will  we  remain  upon  the  soil,  the  which 

Our  monarch  conquered  for  himself  and  died. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Help  to  keep  down  the  common  enemy, 

And  the  fair  border  land  must  needs  be  yours. 

WEANGEL. 

But  when  the  common  enemy  lies  vanquished, 

Who  knits  together  our  new  friendship  then  ? 

We  know,  Duke  Friedland  !  though  perhaps  the  Swede 

Ought  not  to  have  known  it,  that  you  carry  on 

Secret  negotiations  with  the  Saxons. 

*  A  great  stone  near  Liitzen,  since  called  the  Swede's  Stone,  the  body  of 
their  great  king  having  been  found  at  the  foot  of  it,  after  the  battle  in  which 
he  lost  his  life. 


292  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLEN8TEIN. 

Who  is  our  warranty  that  we  are  not 

The  sacrifices  in  those  articles 

Which  'tis  thought  needful  to  conceal  from  us? 

WALLENSTEIN  (rises). 

Think  you  of  something  better,  Gustave  Wrangel ! 
Of  Prague  no  more. 

WRANGEL. 

Here  my  commission  ends. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Surrender  up  to  you  my  capital ! 

Far  liever  would  I  force  about,  and  step 

Back  to  my  emperor. 

WRANGEL. 

If  time  yet  permits 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That  lies  with  me,  even  now,  at  any  hour. 

WRANGEL. 

Some  days  ago,  perhaps.     To-day,  no  longer ; 
No  longer  since  Sesina's  been  a  prisoner. 

[WALLENSTEIN  is  struck,  and  silenced. 
My  lord  duke,  hear  me  —  we  believe  that  you 
At  present  do  mean  honorably  by  us. 
Since  yesterday  we're  sure  of  that  —  and  now 
This  paper  warrants  for  the  troops,  there's  nothing 
Stands  in  the  way  of  our  full  confidence. 
Prague  shall  not  part  us.     Hear !     The  chancellor 
Contents  himself  with  Alstadt ;  to  your  grace 
He  gives  up  Ratschin  and  the  narrow  side. 
But  Egra  above  all  must  open  to  us, 
Ere  we  can  think  of  any  junction. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You, 

You  therefore  must  I  trust,  and  not  you  me  ? 
I  will  consider  of  your  proposition. 

WRANGEL. 

I  must  entreat  that  your  consideration 
Occupy  not  too  long  a  time.     Already 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  293 

Has  this  negotiation,  my  lord  duke ! 
Crept  on  into  the  second  year.    If  nothing 
Is  settled  this  time,  will  the  chancellor 
Consider  it  as  broken  off  forever  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  press  me  hard.    A  measure  such  as  this 
Ought  to  be  thought  of. 

WBANGEL. 

Ay !  but  think  of  this  too, 
That  sudden  action  only  can  procure  it. 
Success  —  think  first  of  this,  your  highness. 

{Exit  WBANGEL. 

SCENE  VI. 
WALLENSTEIN,  TEBZKY,  and  ILLO  (r&enter}. 

ILLO. 

Is't  all  right? 

TEBZKY. 

Are  you  compromised  ? 

ILLO. 

This  Swede 
Went  smiling  from  you.    Yes !  you're  compromised. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

As  yet  is  nothing  settled  ;  and  (well  weighed) 
I  feel  myself  inclined  to  leave  it  so. 

TEEZKY. 

How?    What  is  that? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come  on  rne  what  will  come, 
The  doing  evil  to  avoid  an  evil 
Cannot  be  good  ! 

TEBZKY. 

Nay,  but  bethink  you,  duke. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  live  upon  the  mercy  of  these  Swedes ! 

Of  these  proud-hearted  Swedes  !  — I  could  not  bear  it. 


294  THE   DEATH   OF   W  ALLEN  STEIN. 

ILLO. 

Goest  thou  as  fugitive,  as  mendicant? 

Bringest  thou  not  more  to  them  than  thou  receivest  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  fared  it  with  the  brave  and  royal  Bourbon 
Who  sold  himself  unto  his  country's  foes, 
And  pierced  the  bosom  of  his  father-land  ? 
Curses  were  his  reward,  and  men's  abhorrence 
Avenged  the  unnatural  and  revolting  deed. 

ILLO. 
Is  that  thy  case  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

True  faith,  I  tell  thee, 
Must  ever  be  the  dearest  friend  of  man : 
His  nature  prompts  him  to  assert  its  rights. 
The  enmity  of  sects,  the  rage  of  parties, 
Long-cherished  envy,  jealousy,  unite ; 
And  all  the  struggling  elements  of  evil 
Suspend  their  conflict,  and  together  league 
In  one  alliance  'gainst  their  common  foe  — 
The  savage  beast  that  breaks  into  the  fold, 
Where  men  repose  in  confidence  and  peace. 
For  vain  were  man's  own  prudence  to  protect  him. 
'Tis  only  in  the  forehead  nature  plants 
The  watchful  eye ;  the  back,  without  defence, 
Must  find  its  shield  in  man's  fidelity. 

TEEZKY. 

Think  not  more  meanly  of  thyself  than  do 

Thy  foes,  who  stretch  their  hands  with  joy  to  greet  thee. 

Less  scrupulous  far  was  the  imperial  Charles, 

The  powerful  head  of  this  illustrious  house ;     • 

With  open  arms  he  gave  the  Bourbon  welcome; 

For  still  by  policy  the  world  is  ruled. 

SCENE  VII. 
To  these  enter  the  COUNTESS  TERZKT. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  sent  for  you  ?    There  is  no  business  here 
For  women. 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  295 

COUNTESS. 

I  am  come  to  bid  you  joy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Use  thy  authority,  Terzky ;  bid  her  go. 

COUNTESS. 
Come  I  perhaps  too  early  ?    I  hope  not. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Set  not  this  tongue  upon  me,  I  entreat  you: 
You  know  it  is  the  weapon  that  destroys  me. 
I  am  routed,  if  a  woman  but  attack  me : 
I  cannot  traffic  in  the  trade  of  words 
With  that  unreasoning  sex. 

COUNTESS. 

I  had  already 
Given  the  Bohemians  a  king. 

WALLENSTEIN  (sarcastically). 

They  have  one, 
In  consequence,  no  doubt. 

COUNTESS  (to  the  others). 

Ha !  what  new  scruple  ? 

TERZKY. 

The  duke  will  not. 

COUNTESS. 

He  will  not  what  he  must ! 

ILLO. 

Tt  lies  with  you  now.    Try.    For  I  am  silenced 
When  folks  begin  to  talk  to  me  of  conscience 
And  of  fidelity. 

COUNTESS. 

How?  then,  when  all 
Lay  in  the  far-off  distance,  when  the  road 
Stretched  out  before  thine  eyes  interminably, 
Then  hadst  thou  courage  and  resolve ;  and  now, 
Now  that  the  dream  is  being  realized, 
The  purpose  ripe,  the  issue  ascertained, 


296  THE   DEATH   OP   WALLENSTEIN. 

Dost  thou  begin  to  play  the  dastard  now  ? 
Planned  merely,  'tis  a  common  felony ; 
Accomplished,  an  immortal  undertaking: 
And  with  success  comes  pardon  hand  in  hand, 
For  all  event  is  God's  arbitrament. 
SERVANT  (enters). 
The  Colonel  Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS  (hastily). 

—  Must  wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  cannot  see  him  now.     Another  time. 

SERVANT. 

But  for  two  minutes  he  entreats  an  audience  : 
Of  the  most  urgent  nature  is  his  business. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  knows  what  he  may  bring  us  !     I  will  hear  him. 

COUNTESS  (laughs). 
Urgent  for  him,  no  doubt  ?  but  thou  may'st  wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  shalt  be  informed  hereafter. 
First  let  the  Swede  and  thee  be  compromised. 

[Exit  SERVANT. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

If  there  were  yet  a  choice !  if  yet  some  milder 
Way  of  escape  were  possible  —  I  still 
Will  choose  it,  and  avoid  the  last  extreme. 

COUNTESS. 

Desirest  thou  nothing  further  ?     Such  a  way 
Lies  still  before  thee.     Send  this  Wrangel  off. 
Forget  thou  thy  old  hopes,  cast  far  away 
All  thy  past  life ;  determine  to  commence 
A  new  one.     Virtue  hath  her  heroes  too, 
As  well  as  fame  and  fortune.    To  Vienna 
Hence  —  to  the  emperor  —  kneel  before  the  throne ; 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  297 

Take  a  full  coffer  with  thee  —  say  aloud, 
Thou  didst  but  wish  to  prove  thy  fealty  ; 
Thy  whole  intention  but  to  dupe  the  Swede. 

ILLO. 

For  that  too  'tis  too  late.     They  know  too  much ; 
He  would  but  bear  his  own  head  to  the  block. 

COUNTESS. 

I  fear  not  that.     They  have  not  evidence 
To  attaint  him  legally,  and  they  avoid 
The  avowal  of  an  arbitrary  power. 
They'll  let  the  duke  resign  without  disturbance. 
I  see  how  all  will  end.     The  King  of  Hungary 
Makes  his  appearance,  and  'twill  of  itself 
Be  understood,  and  then  the  duke  retires. 
There  will  not  want  a  formal  declaration. 
The  young  king  will  administer  the  oath 
To  the  whole  army  ;  and  so  all  returns 
To  the  old  position.     On  some  morrow  morning 
The  duke  departs ;  and  now  'tis  stir  and  bustle 
Within  his  castles.     He  will  hunt  and  build ; 
Superintend  his  horses'  pedigrees, 
Creates  himself  a  court,  gives  golden  keys, 
And  introduceth  strictest  ceremony 
In  fine  proportions,  and  nice  etiquette ; 
Keeps  open  table  with  high  cheer :  in  brief, 
Commenceth  mighty  king  —  in  miniature. 
And  while  he  prudently  demeans  himself, 
And  gives  himself  no  actual  importance, 
He  will  be  let  appear  whate'er  he  likes: 
And  who  dares  doubt,  that  Friedland  will  appear 
A  mighty  prince  to  his  last  dying  hour? 
Well  now,  what  then?     Duke  Friedland  is  as  others, 
A  fire-new  noble,  whom  the  war  hath  raised 
To  price  and  currency,  a  Jonah's  gourd, 
An  over-night  creation  of  court-favor, 
Which,  with  an  undistinguishable  ease, 
Makes  baron  or  makes  prince. 

WALLENSTEIN"  (in  extreme  agitation). 
Take  her  away. 
Let  in  the  young  Count  Piccolomini. 


298  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

Art  thou  in  earnest  ?    I  entreat  thee  !     Canst  thou 
Consent  to  bear  thyself  to  thy  own  grave, 
So  ignominiously  to  be  dried  up? 
Thy  life,  that  arrogated  such  an  height 
To  end  in  such  a  nothing !     To  be  nothing, 
When  one  was  always  nothing,  is  an  evil 
That  asks  no  stretch  of  patience,  a  light  evil ; 
But  to  become  a  nothing,  having  been  — — 

WALLENSTEIN  (starts  up  in  violent  agitation). 

Show  me  a  way  out  of  this  stifling  crowd, 

Ye  powers  of  aidance !     Show  me  such  a  way 

As  I  am  capable  of  going.     I 

Am  no  tongue-hero,  no  tine  virtue-prattler; 

I  cannot  warm  by  thinking ;  cannot  say 

To  the  good  luck  that  turns  her  back  upon  me 

Magnanimously  :  "  Go  ;  I  need  thee  not." 

Cease  I  to  work,  I  am  annihilated. 

Dangers  nor  sacrifices  will  I  shun, 

If  so  I  may  avoid  the  last  extreme ; 

But  ere  I  sink  down  into  nothingness, 

Leave  off  so  little,  who  began  so  great, 

Ere  that  the  world  confuses  me  with  those 

Poor  wretches,  whom  a  day  creates  and  crumbles, 

This  age  and  after  ages  *  speak  my  name 

With  hate  and  dread ;  and  Friedland  be  redemption 

For  each  accursed  deed. 

COUNTESS. 

What  is  there  here,  then, 
So  against  nature  ?    Help  me  to  perceive  it ! 
Oh,  let  not  superstition's  nightly  goblins 
Subdue  thy  clear,  bright  spirit !     Art  thou  bid 
To  murder?  with  abhorred,  accursed  poniard, 
To  violate  the  breasts  that  nourished  thee  ? 
That  were  against  our  nature,  that  might  aptly 

*  Could  I  have  hazarded  such  a  Germanism  as  the  use  of  the  word  after 
world  for  posterity,  — "  Es  spreche  Welt  und  Naclnrelt  meinen  Namen"- 
might    have    been    rendered   with  more    literal  fidelity  :    Let    world    and 
afterworld  speak  out  my  uame,  etc. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  299 

Make  thy  flesh  shudder,  and  thy  whole  heart  sicken.* 

Yet  not  a  few,  and  for  a  meaner  object, 

Have  ventured  even  this,  ay,  and  performed  it. 

What  is  there  in  thy  case  so  black  and  monstrous  ? 

Thou  art  accused  of  treason  —  whether  with 

Or  without  justice  is  not  now  the  question  — 

Thou  art  lost  if  thou  dost  not  avail  thee  quickly 

Of  the  power  which  thou  possessest  —  Friedland  !  Duke  ! 

Tell  me  where  lives  that  thing  so  meek  and  tame, 

That  doth  not  all  his  living  faculties 

Put  forth  in  preservation  of  his  life? 

What  deed  so  daring,  which  necessity 

And  desperation  will  not  sanctify  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Once  was  this  Ferdinand  so  gracious  to  me ; 
He  loved  me ;  he  esteemed  me ;  I  was  placed 
The  nearest  to  his  heart.     Full  many  a  time 
We  like  familiar  friends,  both  at  one  table, 
Have  banqueted  together  —  he  and  I; 
And  the  young  kings  themselves  held  me  the  basin 
Wherewith  to  wash  me  — and  is't  come  to  this  ? 

COUNTESS. 

So  faithfully  preservest  thou  each  small  favor, 

And  hast  no  memory  for  contumelies  ? 

Must  I  remind  thee,  how  at  Regensburg 

This  man  repaid  thy  faithful  services  ? 

All  ranks  and  all  conditions  in  the  empire 

Thou  hadst  wronged  to  make  him  great, — hadst  loaded 

on  thee, 

On  thee,  the  hate,  the  curse  of  the  whole  world. 
No  friend  existed  for  thee  in  all  Germany, 
And  why  ?  because  thou  hadst  existed  only 
For  the  emperor.     To  the  emperor  alone 
Clung  Friedland  in  that  storm  which  gathered  round  him 
At  Regensburg  in  the  Diet  —  and  he  dropped  thee! 
He  let  thee  fall !  he  let  thee  fall  a  victim 

*  I  have  not  ventured  to  affront  the  fastidious  delicacy  of  our  age  with  a 
literal  translation  of  this  line, 

werth 
Die  Eingeweiile  schaudernd  aufzuregen. 


300  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

To  the  Bavarian,  to  that  insolent ! 

Deposed,  stripped  bare  of  all  thy  dignity 

And  power,  amid  the  taunting  of  thy  foe 

Thou  wert  let  drop  into  obscurity. 

Say  not,  the  restoration  of  thy  honor 

Has  made  atonement  for  that  first  injustice. 

No  honest  good-will  was  it  that  replaced  thee  ; 

The  law  of  hard  necessity  replaced  thee, 

Which  they  had  fain  opposed,  but  that  they  could  not. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not  to  their  good  wishes,  that  is  certain, 
Nor  yet  to  his  affection  I'm  indebted 
For  this  high  office ;  and  if  I  abuse  it, 
I  shall  therein  abuse  no  confidence. 

COUNTESS. 

Affection  !  confidence  !  — they  needed  thee. 
Necessity,  impetuous  remonstrant ! 
Who  not  with  empty  names,  or  shows  of  proxy, 
Is  served,  who'll  have  the  thing  and  not  the  symbol, 
Ever  seeks  out  the  greatest  and  the  best, 
And  at  the  rudder  places  him,  e'en  though 
She  had  been  forced  to  take  him  from  the  rabble  — 
She,  this  necessity,  it  was  that  placed  thee 
In  this  high  office  ;  it  was  she  that  gave  thee 
Thy  letters-patent  of  inauguration. 
For,  to  the  uttermost  moment  that  they  can, 
This  race  still  help  themselves  at  cheapest  rate 
With  slavish  souls,  with  puppets  !     At  the  approach 
Of  extreme  peril,  when  a  hollow  image 
Is  found  a  hollow  image  and  no  more, 
Then  falls  the  power  into  the  mighty  hands 
Of  nature,  of  the  spirit-giant  born, 
Who  listens  only  to  himself,  knows  nothing 
Of  stipulations,  duties,  reverences, 
And,  like  the  emancipated  force  of  fire, 
tin  mastered  scorches,  ere  it  reaches  them, 
Their  fine-spun  webs,  their  artificial  policy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  true !  they  saw  me  always  as  I  am  — 
Always  !  I  did  not  cheat  them  in  the  bargain. 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  301 

held  it  worth  my  pains  to  hide 
The  bold  all-grasping  habit  of  my  soul. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay  rather  —  thou  hast  ever  shown  thyself 

A  formidable  man,  without  restraint ; 

Hast  exercised  the  full  prerogatives 

Of  thy  impetuous  nature,  which  had  been 

Once  granted  to  thee.     Therefore,  duke,  not  thou, 

Who  hast  still  remained  consistent  with  thyself, 

But  they  are  in  the  wrong,  who,  fearing  thee, 

Intrusted  such  a  power  in  hands  they  feared. 

For,  by  the  laws  of  spirit,  in  the  right 

Is  every  individual  character 

That  acts  in  strict  consistence  with  itself: 

Self-contradiction  is  the  only  wrong. 

Wert  thou  another  being,  then,  when  thou 

Eight  years  ago  pursuedst  thy  march  with  fire, 

And  sword,  and  desolation,  through  the  circles 

Of  Germany,  the  universal  scourge, 

Didst  mock  all  ordinances  of  the  empire, 

The  fearful  rights  of   strength  alone  exei-tedst, 

Trampledst  to  earth  each  rank,  each  magistracy, 

All  to  extend  thy  Sultan's  domination? 

Then  was  the  time  to  break  thee  in,  to  curb 

Thy  haughty  will,  to  teach  thee  ordinance. 

But  no,  the  emperor  felt  no  touch  of  conscience  ; 

What  served  him  pleased   him,  and  without  a  murmu/ 

He  stamped  his  broad  seal  on  these  lawless  deeds. 

What  at  that  time  was  right,  because  thou  didst  it 

For  him,  to-day  is  all  at  once  become 

Opprobrious,  foul,  because  it  is  directed 

Against  him.    O  most  flimsy  superstition! 

WALLENSTETN  (rising). 

I  never  saw  it  in  this  light  before, 

'Tis  even  so.     The  emperor  perpetrated 

Deeds  through  my  arm,  deeds  most  unorderly. 

And  even  this  prince's  mantle,  which  I  wear, 

I  owe  to  what  were  services  to  him, 

But  most  high  misdemeanors  'gainst  the  empire. 


302  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

Then  betwixt  thee  and  him  (confess  it,  Friedland !) 

The  point  can  be  no  more  of  right  and  duty, 

Only  of  power  and  the  opportunity. 

That  opportunity,  lo  !  it  comes  yonder 

Approaching  with  swift  steeds  ;  then  with  a  swing 

Throw  thyself  up  into  the  chariot-seat, 

Seize  with  firm  hand  the  reins  ere  thy  opponent 

Anticipate  thee,  and  himself  make  conquest 

Of  the  now  empty  seat.     The  moment  comes ; 

It  is  already  here,  when  thou  must  write 

The  absolute  total  of  thy  life's  vast  sum. 

The  constellations  stand  victorious  o'er  thee, 

The  planets  shoot  good  fortune  in  fair  junctions, 

And  tell  thee,  "  Now's  the  time  ! "     The  starry  courses 

Hast  thou  thy  life-long  measured  to  no  purpose  ? 

The  quadrant  and  the  circle,  were  they  playthings  ? 

[Pointing  to  the  different  objects  in  the  room. 
The  zodiacs,  the  rolling  orbs  of  heaven, 
Hast  pictured  on  these  walls  and  all  around  thee. 
In  dumb,  foreboding  symbols  hast  thou  placed 
These  seven  presiding  lords  of  destiny  — 
For  toys  ?    Is  all  this  preparation  nothing  ? 
Is  there  no  marrow  in  this  hollow  art, 
That  even  to  thyself  it  doth  avail 
Nothing,  and  has  no  influence  over  thee 
In  the  great  moment  of  decision  ? 

WALLENSTEIN  (during  this  last  speech  walks  up  and 
down  with  inward  struggles,  laboring  with  2)assian, ; 
stops  suddenly,  stands  still,  then  interrupting  ke 
COUNTESS). 

Send  Wrangel  to  me  —  I  will  instantly 

Despatch  three  couriers 

ILLO  (hurrying  out). 

God  in  heaven  be  praised  \ 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  is  his  evil  genius  and  mine. 

Our  evil  genius  !     It  chastises  him 

Through  me,  the  instrument  of  his  ambition; 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  303 

And  I  expect  no  less,  than  that  revenge 

E'en  now  is  whetting  for  my  breast  the  poinard. 

Who  sows  the  serpent's  teeth  let  him  not  hope 

To  reap  a  joyous  harvest.     Every  crime 

Has,  in  the  moment  of  its  perpetration, 

Its  own  avenging  angel  —  dark  misgiving, 

An  ominous  sinking  at  the  inmost  heart. 

He  can  no  longer  trust  me.     Then  no  longer 

Can  I  retreat  —  so  come  that  which  must  come. 

Still  destiny  preserves  its  due  relations, 

The  heart  within  us  is  its  absolute 

Vicegerent.  [  To  TERZKY. 

Go,  conduct  you  Gustave  Wrangel 
To  my  state  cabinet.    Myself  will  speak  to 
The  couriers.     And  despatch  immediately 
A  servant  for  Octavio  Piccolomini. 

[  To  the  COUNTESS,  who  cannot  conceal  her  triumph. 
No  exultation!  woman,  triumph  not ! 
For  jealous  are  the  powers  of  destiny, 
Joy  premature,  and  shouts  ere  victory, 
Encroach  upon  their  rights  and  privileges. 
We  sow  the  seed,  and  they  the  growth  determine. 

[  While  he  is  making  his  exit  the  curtain  drops. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

Scene  as  in  the  preceding  Act. 
WALLENSTEIN,  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI. 
WALLENSTEIN  (coming  forward  in  conversation). 
He  sends  me  word  from  Linz  that  he  lies  sick ; 
But  I  have  sure  intelligence  that  he 
Secretes  himself  at  Frauenberg  with  Gallas. 
Secure  them  both,  and  send  them  to  me  hither. 
Remember,  thou  takest  on  thee  the  command 
Of  those  same  Spanish  regiments,  —  constantly 
Make  preparation,  and  be  never  ready  ; 
And  if  they  urge  thee  to  draw  out  against  me, 
Still  answer  yes,  and  stand  as»  thou  wert  fettered. 


304  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN* 

I  know,  that  it  is  doing  thee  a  service 
To  keep  thee  out  of  action  in  this  business. 
Thou  lovest  to  linger  on  in  fair  appearances ; 
Steps  of  extremity  are  not  thy  province, 
Therefore  have  I  sought  out  this  part  for  thee. 
Thou  wilt  this  time  be  of  most  service  to  me 
By  thy  inertness.     The  meantime,  if  fortune 
Declare  itself  on  my  side,  thou  wilt  know 
What  is  to  do. 

[Enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINL 
Now  go,  Octavio. 

This  night  must  thou  be  off,  take  my  own  horses  : 
Him  here  I  keep  with  me  —  make  short  farewell  — 
Trust  me,  I  think  we  all  shall  meet  again 
In  joy  and  thriving  fortunes. 

OCTAVIO  (to  his  son). 

I  shall  see  you 
Yet  ere  I  go. 

SCENE  II. 
WALLENSTEIN,  MAX.  PICOLOMINI. 

MAX.  (advances  to  him). 
My  general ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That  I  am  no  longer,  if 
Thou  stylest  thyself  the  emperor's  officer. 

MAX. 
Then  thou  wilt  leave  the  army,  general  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  have  renounced  the  service  of  the  emperor. 

MAX. 
And  thou  wilt  leave  the  army? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Rather  hope  I 
To  bind  it  nearer  still  and  faster  to  me. 

[He  seats  himself. 

Yes,  Max.,  I  have  delayed  to  open  it  to  thee, 
Even  till  the  hour  of  acting  'gins  to  strike. 


THE   DEATH  OF   WALLENSTEIN.  305 

Youth's  fortunate  feeling  doth  seize  easily 

The  absolute  right,  yea,  and  a  joy  it  is 

To  exercise  the  single  apprehension 

Where  the  sums  square  in  proof ; 

But  where  it  happens,  that  of  two  sure  evils 

One  must  be  taken,  where  the  heart  not  wholly 

Brings  itself  back  from  out  the  strife  of  duties, 

There  'tis  a  blessing  to  have  no  election, 

And  blank  necessity  is  grace  and  favor. 

This  is  now  present :   do  not  look  behind  thee, — 

It  can  no  more  avail  thee.      Look  thou  forwards ! 

Think  not!  judge  not!  prepare  thyself  to  act! 

The  court  —  it  hath  determined  on  my  ruin, 

Therefore  I  will  be  beforehand  with  them. 

We'll  join  the  Swedes  — right  gallant  fellows  are  they, 

And  our  good  friends. 

\_He  stops  himself,  expecting  PICCOLOMINI'S  answer. 

I  have  taken  thee  by  surprise.     Answer  me  not : 

I  grant  thee  time  to  recollect  thyself. 

\_He  rises,  retires  to  the  back  of  the  stage.  MAX.  re- 
mains fora  long  time  motionless,  in  a  trance  of 
excessive  anguish.  At  his  first  motion  W  ALLEN- 
STEIN  returns,  and  places  himself  before  him. 

MAX. 

My  general,  this  day  thou  rnakest  me 
Of  age  to  speak  in  my  own  right  and  person, 
For  till  this  day  I  have  been  spared  the  trouble 
To  find  out  my  own  road.     Thee  have  I  followed 
With  most  implicit,  unconditional  faith, 
Sure  of  the  right  path  if  I  followed  thee. 
To-day,  for  the  first  time,  dost  thou  refer 
Me  to  myself,  and  forcest  me  to  make 
Election  between  thee  and  my  own  heart. 

W  ALLEN  STEIN. 

Soft  cradled  thee  thy  fortune  till  to-day; 

Thy  duties  thou  couldst  exercise  in  sport, 

Indulge  all  lovely  instincts,  act  forever 

With  undivided  heart.     It  can  remain 

No  longer  thus.     Like  enemies,  the  roads 

Start  from  each  other.    Duties  strive  with  duties, 


306  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEDf. 

Thou  must  needs  choose  thy  party  in  the  war 
Which  is  now  kindling  'twixt  thy  friend  and  him 
Who  is  thy  emperor. 

MAX. 

War !  is  that  the  name  ? 
War  is  as  frightful  as  heaven's  pestilence, 
^et  it  is  good,  is  it  heaven's  will  as  that  is. 
Is  that  a  good  war,  which  against  the  emperor 
Thou  wagest  with  the  emperor's  own  army? 
O  God  of  heaven  !  what  a  change  is  this. 
Beseems  it  me  to  offer  such  persuasion 
To  thee,  who  like  the  fixed  star  of  the  pole 
Wert  all  I  gazed  at  on  life's  trackless  ocean  ? 
O  !  what  a  rent  thou  makest  in  my  heart ! 
The  ingrained  instinct  of  old  reverence, 
The  holy  habit  of  obediency, 
Must  I  pluck  life  asunder  from  thy  name  ? 
Nay,  do  not  turn  thy  countenance  upon  me  — 
It  always  was  as  a  god  looking  upon  me ! 
Duke  Wallenstein,  its  power  has  not  departed ; 
The  senses  still  are  in  thy  bonds,  although 
Bleeding,  the  soul  hath  freed  itself. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max.,  hear  me. 
MAX. 

Oh,  do  it  not,  I  pray  thee,  do  it  not ! 
There  is  a  pure  and  noble  soul  within  thee, 
Knows  not  of  this  unblest  unlucky  doing. 
Thy  will  is  chaste,  it  is  thy  fancy  only 
Which  hath  polluted  thee  —  and  innocence, 
It  will  not  let  itself  be  driven  away 
From  that  world-awing  aspect.     Thou  wilt  not, 
Thou  canst  not  end  in  this.     It  would  reduce 
All  human  creatures  to  disloyalty 
Against  the  nobleness  of  their  own  nature. 
'Twill  justify  the  vulgar  misbelief, 
Which  holdeth  nothing  noble  in  free  will, 
And  trusts  itself  to  impotence  alone, 
Made  powerful  only  in  an  unknown  power. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WAI.LENSTEIN.  307 

WALLENSTEIJST. 

The  world  will  judge  me  harshly,  I  expect  it. 
Already  have  I  said  to  my  own  self 
All  thou  canst  say  to  me.     Who  but  avoids 
The  extreme,  can  he  by  going  round  avoid  it? 
But  here  there  is  no  choice.     Yes,  I  must  use 
Or  suffer  violence  —  so  stands  the  case, 
There  remains  nothing  possible  but  that. 

MAX. 

Oh,  that  is  never  possible  for  thee ! 

'Tis  the  last  desperate  resource  of  those 

Cheap  souls,  to  whom  their  honor,  their  good  name, 

Is  their  poor  saving,  their  last  worthless  keep, 

Which,  having  staked  and  lost,  they  staked  themselves 

In  the  mad  rage  of  gaming.     Thou  art  rich 

And  glorious  \  with  an  unpolluted  heart 

Thou  canst  make  conquest  of  whate'er  seems  highest! 

But  he  who  once  hath  acted  infamy 

Does  nothing  more  in  this  world. 

WALLENSTEIN  (grasps  his  hand). 

Calmly,  Max. ! 

Much  that  is  great  and  excellent  will  we 
Perform  together  yet.     And  if  we  only 
Stand  on  the  height  with  dignity,  'tis  soon 
Forgotten,  Max.,  by  what  road  we  ascended. 
Believe  me,  many  a  crown  shines  spotless  now, 
That  yet  was  deeply  sullied  in  the  winning. 
To  the  evil  spirit  doth  the  earth  belong, 
Not  to  the  good.    All  that  the  powers  divine 
Send  from  above  are  universal  blessings : 
Their  light  rejoices  us,  their  air  refreshes, 
But  never  yet  was  man  enriched  by  them : 
In  their  eternal  realm  no  property 
Is  to  be  struggled  for — all  there  is  general. 
The  jewel,  the  all-valued  gold  we  win 
From  the  deceiving  powers,  depraved  in  nature, 
That  dwell  beneath  the  day  and  blessed  sunlight. 
Not  without  sacrifices  are  they  rendered 
Propitious,  and  there  lives  no  soul  on  earth 
That  e'er  retired  unsullied  from  their  service. 


308  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

MAX. 

Whate'er  is  human  to  the  human  being 

Do  I  allow  —  and  to  the  vehement 

And  striving  spirit  readily  I  pardon 

The  excess  of  action  ;  but  to  thee,  my  general ! 

Above  all  others  make  I  large  concession. 

For  thou  must  move  a  world  and  be  the  master  — 

He  kills  thee  who  condemns  thee  to  inaction. 

So  be  it  then !  maintain  thee  in  thy  post 

By  violence.     Resist  the  emperor, 

And  if  it  must  be  force  with  force  repel ; 

I  will  not  praise  it,  yet  I  can  forgive  it. 

But  not  —  not  to  the  traitor  —  yes !  the  word 

Is  spoken  out 

Not  to  the  traitor  can  I  yield  a  pardon. 
That  is  no  mere  excess !  that  is  no  error 
Of  human  nature  —  that  is  wholly  different, 
Oh,  that  is  black,  black  as  the  pit  of  hell ! 

[WALLENSTEIN  betrays  a  sudden  agitation. 
Thou  canst  not  hear  it  named,  and  wilt  thou  do  it? 

0  turn  back  to  thy  duty.     That  thou  canst, 

1  hold  it  certain.     Send  me  to  Vienna ; 

I'll  make  thy  peace  for  thee  with  the  emperor. 
He  knows  thee  not.     But  I  do  know  thee.     He 
Shall  see  thee,  duke  !  with  my  unclouded  eye, 
And  I  bring  back  his  confidence  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  is  too  late !  Thou  knowest  not  what  has  happened. 

MAX. 

Were  it  too  late,  and  were  things  "gone  so  far, 
That  a  crime  only  could  prevent  thy  fall, 
Then  —  fall !  fall  honorably,  even  as  thou  stoodest, 
Lose  the  command.     Go  from  the  stage  of  war! 
Thou  canst  with  splendor  do  it  —  do  it  too 
With  innocence.     Thou  hast  lived  much  for  others, 
At  length  live  thou  for  thy  own  self.     I  follow  thee. 
.     My  destiny  I  never  part  from  thine. 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  309 

W  ALLEN  STEIN. 

It  is  too  late !     Even  now,  while  thou  art  losing 
Thy  words,  one  after  another,  are  the  mile-stones 
Left  fast  behind  by  my  post  couriers, 
Who  bear  the  order  on  to  Prague  and  Egra. 

[MAX.  stands  as  convulsed,  with  a  gesture  and  counten- 
ance expressing  the  most  intense  anguish. 
Yield  thyself  to  it.     We  act  as  we  are  forced. 
I  cannot  give  assent  to  my  own  shame 
And  ruin.    Thou  —  no  —  thou  canst  not  forsake  me  ! 
So  let  us  do,  what  must  be  done,  with  dignity, 
With  a  firm  step.     What  am  I  doing  worse 
Than  did  famed  Caesar  at  the  Rubicon, 
When  he  the  legions  led  against  his  country, 
The  which  his  country  had  delivered  to  him  ? 
Had  he  thrown  down  the  sword,  he  had  been  lost. 
As  I  were,  if  I  but  disarmed  myself. 
I  trace  out  something  in  me  of  this  spirit. 
Give  me  his  luck,  that  other  thing  I'll  bear. 

[MAX.  quits  him  abruptly,  WALLENSTEIN  startled 
and  overpowered,  continues  looking  after  him,  and 
is  still  in  this  posture  when  TEKZKY  enters. 

SCENE  III. 
WALLENSTEIN,  TERZKY. 

TERZKY. 
Max.  Piccolomini  just  left  you? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Where  is  Wrangel  ? 

TERZKY. 

He  is  already  gone. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  such  a  hurry? 

TERZKY. 

It  is  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  him. 

He  had  scarce  left  thee,  when  I  went  to  seek  him. 

I  wished  some  words  with  him  —  but  he  was  gone. 


310  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLEXSTEIST. 

How,  when,  and  where,  could  no  one  tell  me.    Nay, 
I  half  believe  it  was  the  devil  himself; 
A  human  creature  could  not  so  at  once 
Have  vanished. 

ILLO  (enters). 

Is  it  true  that  thou  wilt  send 
Octavio  ? 

TEEZKY. 

How,  Octavio  !     Whither  send  him  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  goes  to  Frauenburg,  and  will  lead  hither 
The  Spanish  and  Italian  regiments. 

ILLO. 

No! 
Nay,  heaven  forbid ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  should  heaven  forbid  ? 

ILLO. 

Him  !  —  that  deceiver !     Wouldst  thou  trust  to  him 
The  soldiery  ?     Him  wilt  thou  let  slip  from  thee, 
Now  in  the  very  instant  that  decides  us 

TERZKY. 
Thou  wilt  not  do  this !     No !  I  pray  thee,  no ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  are  whimsical. 

ILLO. 

O  but  for  this  time,  duke, 
Yield  to  our  warning !     Let  him  not  depart. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  should  I  not  trust  him  only  this  time, 

Who  have  always  trusted  him  ?    What,  then,  has  happened 

That  I  should  lose  my  good  opinion  of  him  ? 

In  complaisance  to  your  whims,  not  my  own, 

I  must,  forsooth,  give  up  a  rooted  judgment. 

Think  not  I  am  a  woman.     Having  trusted  him 

E'en  till  to-day,  to-day  too  will  I  trust  him. 


THE  DEATH  OF  W  ALLEN  STEIN,        311 
TERZKY. 

Must  it  be  he  —  he  only  ?     Send  another. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  must  be  he,  whom  I  myself  have  chosen ; 
He  is  well  fitted  for  the  business.    Therefore 
I  gave  it  him. 

ILLO. 

Because  he's  an  Italian  — 
Therefore  is  he  well  fitted  for  the  business ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  know  you  love  them  not,  nor  sire  nor  son, 

Because  that  I  esteem  them,  love  them,  visibly 

Esteem  them,  love  them  more  than  you  and  others, 

E'en  as  they  merit.     Therefore  are  they  eye-blights, 

Thorns  in  your  footpath.     But  your  jealousies, 

In  what  affect  they  me  or  my  concerns? 

Are  they  the  worse  to  me  because  you  hate  them? 

Love  or  hate  one  another  as  you  will, 

I  leave  to  each  man  his  own  moods  and  likings ; 

Yet  know  the  worth  of  each  of  you  to  me. 

ILLO. 

Von  Questenberg,  while  he  was  here,  was  always 
Lurking  about  with  this  Octavio. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  happened  with  my  knowledge  and  permission. 

ILLO. 

I  know  that  secret  messengers  came  to  him 
From  Gallas 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That's  not  true. 

ILLO. 

O  thou  art  blind, 
With  thy  deep-seeing  eyes ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  wilt  not  shake 

My  faith  for  me ;  my  faith,  which  founds  itself 
On  the  profoundest  science.    If  'tis  false, 


312  THE    DEATH   OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

Then  the  whole  science  of  the  stars  is  false ; 
For  know,  I  have  a  pledge  from  Fate  itself, 
That  he  is  the  most  faithful  of  my  friends. 

1LLO. 

Hast  thou  a  pledge  that  this  pledge  is  not  false  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There  exist  moments  in  the  life  of  man, 

When  he  is  nearer  the  great  Soul  of  the  world 

Than  is  man's  custom,  and  possesses  freely 

The  power  of  questioning  his  destiny : 

And  such  a  moment  'twas,  when  in  the  night 

Before  the  action  in  the  plains  of  Liltzen, 

Leaning  against  a  tree,  thoughts  crowding  thoughts, 

I  looked  out  far  upon  the  ominous  plain. 

My  whole  life,  past  and  future,  in  this  moment 

Before  my  mind's  eye  glided  in  procession, 

And  to  the  destiny  of  the  next  morning 

The  spirit,  filled  with  anxious  presentiment, 

Did  knit  the  most  removed  futurity. 

Then  said  I  also  to  myself,  "  So  many 

Dost  thou  command.     They  follow  all  thy  stars, 

And  as  on  some  great  number  set  their  all 

Upon  thy  single  head,  and  only  man 

The  vessel  of  thy  fortune.     Yet  a  day 

Will  come,  when  destiny  shall  once  more  scatter 

All  these  in  many  a  several  direction  : 

Few  be  they  who  will  stand  out  faithful  to  thee." 

I  yearned  to  know  which  one  was  faithfulest 

Of  all,  this  camp  included.     Great  destiny, 

Give  me  a  sign !     And  he  shall  be  the  man, 

Who,  on  the  approaching  morning,  comes  the  first 

To  meet  me  with  a  token  of  his  love : 

And  thinking  this,  I  fell  into  a  slumber, 

Then  midmost  in  the  battle  was  I  led 

In  spirit.     Great  the  pressure  and  the  tumult ! 

Then  was  my  horse  killed  under  me :  I  sank ; 

And  over  me  away,  all  unconcernedly, 

Drove  horse  and  rider  —  and  thus  trod  to  pieces 

I  lay,  and  panted  like  a  dying  man  ; 


l^K,    \     •    *  «-v."J 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  313 

Then  seized  me  suddenly  a  savior  arm ; 

It  was  Octavio's  —  I  woke  at  once, 

'Twas  broad  day,  and  Octavio  stood  before  me. 

"  My  brother,"  said  he,  "  do  not  ride  to-day 

The  dapple,  as  you're  wont ;  but  mount  the  horse 

Which  I  have  chosen  for  thee.     Do  it,  brother ! 

In  love  to  me.     A  strong  dream  warned  me  so." 

It  was  the  swiftness  of  this  horse  that  snatched  me 

From  the  hot  pursuit  of  Bannier's  dragoons. 

My  cousin  rode  the  dapple  on  that  day, 

And  never  more  saw  I  or  horse  or  rider. 

ILLO. 
That  was  a  chance. 

WALLENSTEIN  (significantly). 

There's  no  such  thing  as  chance 
And  what  to  us  seems  merest  accident 
Springs  from  the  deepest  source  of  destiny. 
In  brief,  'tis  signed  and  sealed  that  this  Octavio 
Is  my  good  angel  —  and  now  no  word  more. 

[He  is  retiring. 

TERZKY. 

This  is  my  comfort  —  Max.  remains  our  hostage. 

ILLO. 
And  he  shall  never  stir  from  here  alive. 

WALLENSTEIN  (stops  and  turns  himself  round). 

Are  ye  not  like  the  women,  who  forever 

Only  recur  to  their  first  word,  although 

One  had  been  talking  reason  "by  the  hour  ! 

Know,  that  the  human  being's  thoughts  and  deeds 

Are  not  like  ocean  billows,  blindly  moved. 

The  inner  world,  his  microcosmus,  is 

The  deep  shaft,  out  of  which  they  spring  eternally. 

They  grow  by  certain  laws,  like  the  tree's  fruit  — 

No  juggling  chance  can  metamorphose  them. 

Have  I  the  human  kernel  first  examined  ? 

Then  I  know,  too,  the  future  will  and  action. 

[Exeunt. 


314  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  IV. 

Chamber  in  the  residence  of  Piccolomini :  OCTAVIO  Pic- 
COLOMINI  (attired  for  travelling),  an  ADJUTANT. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  the  detachment  here  ? 

ADJUTANT. 

It  waits  below. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  are  the  soldiers  trusty,  adjutant  ? 

Say,  from  what  regiment  hast  thou  chosen  them? 

ADJUTANT. 

From  Tiefenbach's. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  regiment  is  loyal, 
Keep  them  in  silence  in  the  inner  court, 
Unseen  by  all,  and  when  the  signal  peals 
Then  close  the  doors,  keep  watch  upon  the  house. 
And  all  ye  meet  be  instantly  arrested.     [Exit  ADJUTANT 
I  hope  indeed  I  shall  not  need  their  service, 
So  certain  feel  I  of  my  well-laid  plans ; 
But  when  an  empire's  safety  is  at  stake 
'Twere  better  too  much  caution  than  too  little. 


SCENE  V. 

A  chamber  in  PICCOLOMINI'S  dwetting-house :  OCTAVIO 
PICCOLOMINI,  ISOLANI,  entering. 

ISOLANI. 
Here  am  I  —  well !  who  comes  yet  of  the  others  ? 

OCTAVIO  (with  an  air  of  mystery) . 
But,  first,  a  word  with  you,  Count  Isolani. 

ISOLANI  (assuming  the  same  air  of  mystery). 
Will  it  explode,  ha?    Is  the  duke  about 
To  make  the  attempt  ?     In  me,  friend,  you  may  place 
Full  confidence  —  nay,  put  me  to  the  proof. 


THE   DEATH   OF   W  ALLEN  STEIN.  315 

OCTAVIO. 

That  may  happen. 

ISOLANI. 

Noble  brother,  I  am 

Not  one  of  those  men  who  in  words  are  valiant, 
And  when  it  comes  to  action  skulk  away. 
The  duke  has  acted  towards  me  as  a  friend  : 
God  knows  it  is  so  ;  and  I  owe  him  all ; 
He  may  rely  on  my  fidelity. 

OCTAVIO. 
That  will  be  seen  hereafter. 

ISOLANI. 

Be  on  your  guard, 

All  think  not  as  I  think  ;  and  there  are  many 
Who  still  hold  with  the  court  —  yes,  and  they  say 
That  these  stolen  signatures  bind  them  to  nothing. 

OCTAVIO. 
Indeed  !     Pray  name  to  me  the  chiefs  that  think  so ; 

ISOLANI. 

Plague  upon  them  !  all  the  Germa'ns  think  so 
Esterhazy,  Kaunitz,  Deodati,  too, 
Insist  upon  obedience  to  the  court. 

OCTAVIO. 
I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it. 

ISOLANI. 
You  rejoice  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

That  the  emperor  has  yet  such  gallant  servants, 
And  loving  friends. 

ISOLANI. 

Nay,  jeer  not,  I  entreat  you. 
They  are  no  such  worthless  fellows,  I  assure  you. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  am  assured  already.     God  forbid 
That  I  should  jest !     In  very  serious  earnest, 
I  am  rejoiced  to  see  an  honest  cause 
So  strong. 


316  THE   DEATH   OF   W  ALLEN  STEIN. 

ISOLANI. 

The  devil !  —  what !  —  why,  what  means  this  ? 
Are  you  not,  then For  what,  then,  am  I  here  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

That  you  may  make  full  declaration,  whether 
You  will  be  called  the  friend  or  enemy 
Of  the  emperor. 

ISOLANI  (with  an  air  of  defiance). 

That  declaration,  friend, 
I'll  make  to  him  in  whom  a  right  is  placed 
To  put  that  question  to  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Whether,  count, 
That  right  is  mine,  this  paper  may  instruct  you. 

ISOLANI  (stammering). 
Why,  —  why  —  what !  this  is  the  emperor's  hand  and 

seal  [Reads. 

"  Whereas  the  officers  collectively 
Throughout  our  army  will  obey  the  orders 
Of  the  Lieutenant-General  Piccolomini, 
As  from  ourselves. "  —  Hem !  —  Yes !  so  !  —  Yes !  yes ! 
I  —  I  give  you  joy,  lieutenant-general! 

OCTAVIO. 
And  you  submit  to  the  order  ? 

ISOLANI. 

I—- 
But you  have  taken  me  so  by  surprise  — 
Time  for  reflection  one  must  have 

OCTAVIO. 

Two  minutes. 
ISOLANI. 
My  God  !  but  then  the  case  is 

OCTAVIO. 

Plain  and  simple. 

You  must  declare  you,  whether  you  determine 
To  act  a  treason  'gainst  your  lord  and  sovereign, 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  317 

Or  whether  you  will  serve  him  faithfully. 

Treason  1    My  God  !     But  who  talks  then  of  treason  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

That  is  the  case.     The  prince-duke  is  a  traitor  — 
Means  to  lead  over  to  the  enemy 
The  emperor's  army.     Now,  count !  brief  and  full  - 
Say,  will  you  break  your  oath  to  the  emperor  ? 
Sell  yourself  to  the  enemy?     Say,  will  you? 

ISOLANI. 

What  mean  you  ?    I  —  I  break  my  oath,  d'ye  say, 
To  his  imperial  majesty? 
Did  I  say  so  !     When,  when  have  I  said  that  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

You  have  not  said  it  yet —  not  yet.     This  instant 
I  wait  to  hear,  count,  whether  you  will  say  it. 

ISOLANI. 

Ay!  that  delights  me  now,  that  you  yourself 
Bear  witness  for  me  that  I  never  said  so. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  you  renounce  the  duke  then  ? 

ISOLANI. 

If  he's  planning 
Treason  —  why,  treason  breaks  all  bonds  asunder. 

OCTAVIO. 
And  are  determined,  too,  to  fight  against  him? 

ISOLANI. 

He  has  done  me  service  —  but  if  he's  a  villain, 
Perdition  seize  him !     All  scores  are  rubbed  off. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  am  rejoiced  that  you  are  so  well  disposed. 
This  night  break  off  in  the  utmost  secrecy 
With  all  the  light-armed  troops  —  it  must  appear 
As  came  the  order  from  the  duke  himself. 
At  Frauenburg's  the  place  of  rendezvous  ; 
There  will  Count  Gallas  give  you  further  orders. 


318  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLEXSTEIN. 

ISOLANI. 

It  shall  be  done.     But  you'll  remember  me 

With  the  emperor  —  how  well  disposed  you  found  me 

OCTAVIO. 
I  will  not  fail  to  mention  it  honorably. 

[Exit  ISOLANI.    A  SERVANT  enters. 
What,  Colonel  Butler  !     Show  him  up. 

ISOLANI  (returning). 

Forgive  me  too  my  bearish  ways,  old  father  ! 
Lord  God  !  how  should  I  know,  then,  what  a  great 
Person  I  had  before  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

No  excuses ! 
ISOLANI. 

I  am  a  merry  lad,  and  if  at  time 
A  rash  word  might  escape  me  'gainst  the  court 
Amidst  my  wine,  —  you  know  no  harm  was  meant. 

[Exit. 

OCTAVIO. 

You  need  not  be  uneasy  on  that  score. 
That  has  succeeded.  Fortune  favor  us 
With  all  the  others  only  but  as  much 

SCENE  VI. 
OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI,  BUTLEB. 

BUTLER. 

At  your  command,  lieutenant-general. 

OCTAVIO. 
Welcome,  as  honored  friend  and  visitor. 

BUTLER. 

You  do  me  too  much  honor. 

OCTAVIO  (after  both  have  seated  themselves') 

You  have  not 
Returned  the  advances  which  I  made  you  yesterday  — 


THE    DEATH   OF    WALLENSTEIN.  319 

Misunderstood  them  as  mere  empty  forms. 
That  wish  proceeded  from  my  heart  —  I  was 
In  earnest  with  you  —  for  'tis  now  a  time 
In  which  the  honest  should  unite  most  closely. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  only  the  like-rninded  can  unite. 

OCTAVIO. 

True  !  and  I  name  all  honest  men  like-minded. 
I  never  charge  a  man  but  with  those  acts 
To  which  his  character  deliberately 
Impels  him  ;  for  alas  !  the  violence 
Of  blind  misunderstandings  often  thrusts 
The  very  best  of  us  from  the  right  track. 
You  came  through  Frauenburg.    Did  the  Count  Gallas 
Say  nothing  to  you  ?     Tell  me.     He's  my  friend 

BUTLEK. 
His  words  were  lost  on  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  grieves  me  sorely 

To  hear  it :  for  his  counsel  was  most  wise. 
I  had  myself  the  like  to  offer. 

BUTLER. 

Spare 

Yourself  the  trouble  —  me  the  embarrassment. 
To  have  deserved  so  ill  your  good  opinion. 

OCTAVIO. 

The  time  is  precious  —  let  us  talk  openly. 
You  know  how  matters  stand  here.     W  alien  stein 
Meditates  treason  —  I  can  tell  you  further, 
He  has  committed  treason  ;  but  few  hours 
Have  past  since  he  a  covenant  concluded 
With  the  enemy.    The  messengers  are  now 
Full  on  their  way  to  Egra  and  to  Prague. 
To-morrow  he  intends  to  lead  us  over 
To  the  enemy.     But  he  deceives  himself ; 
For  prudence  wakes  —  the  emperor  has  still 
Many  and  faithful  friends  here,  and  they  stand 


320  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLEN  STEIN. 

In  closest  union,  mighty  though  unseen. 

This  manifesto  sentences  the  duke  — 

Recalls  the  obedience  of  the  army  from  him, 

And  summons  all  the  loyal,  all  the  honest, 

To  join  and  recognize  in  me  their  leader. 

Choose  —  will  you  share  with  us  an  honest  cause  ? 

Or  with  the  evil  share  an  evil  lot? 

BUTLER  (rises). 
His  lot  is  mine. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  that  your  last  resolve  ? 

SUTLER. 

It  is. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Colonel  Butler . 
As  yet  you  have  time.     Within  my  faithful  breast 
That  rashly  uttered  word  remains  interred. 
Recall  it,  Butler!  choose  a  better  party; 
You  have  not  chosen  the  right  one. 

BUTLER  (going). 

Any  other 
Commands  for  me,  lieutenant-general  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

See  your  white  hairs ;  recall  that  word ! 
BUTLER. 

Farewell! 

OCTAVIO. 

What !    Would  you  draw  this  good  and  gallant  sword 
In  such  a  cause  ?    Into  a  curse  would  you 
Transform  the  gratitude  which  you  have  earned 
By  forty  years'  fidelity  from  Austria? 

BUTLER  (laughing  with  bitterness). 
Gratitude  from  the  House  of  Austria !     \_He  is  going. 

OCTAVIO  (permits  him  to  go  as  far  as  the  door,  then 

calls  after  him). 
Butler! 

BUTLER- 
What  wish  you  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEttf.  321 

OCTAVIO. 

How  was't  with  the  count  ? 

BUTLER. 

Count?  what? 

OCTAVIO  (coldly). 
The  title  that  you  wished,  I  mean. 

BUTLER  (starts  in  sudden  passion). 
Hell  and  damnation ! 

OCTAVIO  (coldly). 

You  petitioned  for  it  — 
And  your  petition  was  repelled  —  was  it  so  ? 

BUTLER. 

Your  insolent  scoff  shall  not  go  by  unpunished. 
Draw! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay !  your  sword  to  its  sheath  !  and  tell  me  calmly 
How  all  that  happened.     I  will  not  refuse  you 
Your  satisfaction  afterwards.     Calmly,  Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

Be  the  whole  world  acquainted  with  the  weakness 

For  which  I  never  can  forgive  myself, 

Lieutenant-general !     Yes ;  I  have  ambition. 

Ne'er  was  I  able  to  endure  contempt. 

It  stung  me  to  the  quick  that  birth  and  title 

Should  have  more  weight  than  merit  has  in  the  army. 

I  would  fain  not  be  meaner  than  my  equal, 

So  in  an  evil  hour  I  let  myself 

Be  tempted  to  that  measure.     It  was  folly  ! 

But  yet  so  hard  a  penance  it  deserved  not. 

It  might  have  been  refused  ;  but  wherefore  barb 

And  venom  the  refusal  with  contempt  ? 

Why  dash  to  earth  and  crush  with  heaviest  scorn 

The  gray-haired  man,  the  faithful  veteran  ? 

Why  to  the  baseness  of  his  parentage 

Refer  him  with  such  cruel  roughness,  only 

Because  he  had  a  weak  hour  and  forgot  himself? 

But  nature  gives  a  sting  e'en  to  the  worm 

Which  wanton  power  treads  on  in  sport  and  insult. 


322  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLER  STEIN. 

OGTAVIO. 

You  must  have  been  calumniated.     Guess  you 
The  enemy  who  did  you  this  ill  service  ? 

BUTLER, 

Be't  who  it  will  —  a  most  low-hearted  scoundrel ! 
Some  vile  court-minion  must  it  be,  some  Spaniard; 
Some  young  squire  of  some  ancient  family, 
In  whose  light  I  may  stand;  some  envious  knave, 
Stung  to  his  soul  by  my  fair  self-earned  honors! 

OCTAVIO. 
But  tell  me,  did  the  duke  approve  that  measure  ? 

BUTLER. 

Himself  impelled  me  to  it,  used  his  interest 
In  my  behalf  with  all  the  warmth  of  friendship. 

OCTAVIO. 
Ay  !  are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

BUTLER. 

I  read  the  letter. 
OCTAVIO. 
And  so  did  I  —  but  the  contents  were  different. 

[BUTLER  is  suddenly  struck. 
By  chance  I'm  in  possession  of  that  letter  — 
Can  leave  it  to  your  own  eyes  to  convince  you. 

\_He  gives  him  the  letter. 

BUTLER. 

Ha .  what  is  this  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I  fear  me,  Colonel  Butler, 

An  infamous  game  have  they  been  playing  with  you. 
The  duke,  you  say,  impelled  you  to  this  measure? 
Now,  in  this  letter,  talks  he  in  contempt 
Concerning  you  ;  counsels  the  minister 
To  give  sound  chastisement  to  your  conceit, 
For  so  he  calls  it. 

[BUTLER  reads   through  the  letter;   his  knees 
tremble,  he  seizes  a  chair,  and  sinks  doicn  in  it. 
You  have  no  enemy,  no  persecutor; 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  323 

There's  no  one  wishes  ill  to  you.     Ascribe 

The  insult  you  received  to  the  duke  only. 

His  aim  is  clear  and  palpable.     He  wished 

To  tear  you  from  your  emperor :  he  hoped 

To  gain  from  your  revenge  what  he  well  knew 

(What  your  long-tried  fidelity  convinced  him) 

He  ne'er  could  dare  expect  from  your  calm  reason. 

A  blind  tool  would  he  make  you,  in  contempt 

Use  you,  as  means  of  most  abandoned  ends. 

He  has  gained  his  point.     Too  well  has  he  succeeded 

In  luring  you  away  from  that  good  path 

On  which  you  had  been  journeying  forty  years  ! 

SUTLER  (his  voice  trembling). 
Can  e'er  the  emperor's  majesty  forgive  me  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

More  than  forgive  you.     He  would  fain  compensate 
For  that  affront,  and  most  unmerited  grievance 
Sustained  by  a  deserving  gallant  veteran. 
From  his  free  impulse  he  confirms  the  present, 
Which  the  duke  made  you  for  a  wicked  purpose. 
The  regiment,  which  you  now  command,  is  yours. 
[BUTLER   attempts  to  rise,  sinks  down  again.     He 
labors  inwardly  with  violent  emotions ;  tries  to 
speak  and  cannot.     At  length  he  takes  his  sword 
from  the  belt,  and  offers  it  to  PICCOLOMINI. 

OCTAVIO. 
What  wish  you  ?    Recollect  yourself,  friend. 

BUTLER. 

Take  it. 

OCTAVIO. 

But  to  what  purpose  ?    Calm  yourself. 

BUTLER. 

O  take  it! 
I  am  no  longer  worthy  of  this  sword. 

OCTAVIO. 

Receive  it  then  anew,  from  my  hands —  and 
Wear  it  with  honor  for  the  right  cause  ever. 


324  THE  DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

BUTLER. 

Perjure  myself  to  such  a  gracious  sovereign  ? 

OCTAVIO. 
You'll  make  amends.     Quick  !  break  off  from  the  duke ! 

BUTLER. 
Break  off  from  him ! 

OCTAVIO. 
What  now  ?    Bethink  thyself. 

BUTLER  (no  longer  governing  Ms  emotion). 
Only  break  off  from  him  ?    He  dies !  he  dies ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Come  after  me  to  Frauenberg,  where  now 
All  who  are  loyal  are  assembling  under 
Counts  Altringer  and  Gallas.     Many  others 
I've  brought  to  a  remembrance  of  their  duty : 
This  night  be  sure  that  you  escape  from  Pilsen. 

BUTLER  (strides  up  and  down  in  excessive  agitation,  then 

steps  up  to  OCTAVIO  with  resolved  countenance). 
Count  Piccolomini !  dare  that  man  speak 
Of  honor  to  you,  who  once  bi'oke  his  troth. 

OCTAVIO. 
He  who  repents  so  deeply  of  it  dares. 

BUTLER. 

Then  leave  me  here  upon  my  word  of  honor! 

OCTAVIO. 
What's  your  design  ? 

BUTLER. 

Leave  me  and  my  regiment. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have  full  confidence  in  you.     But  tell  me 
What  are  you  brooding? 

BUTLER. 

That  the  deed  will  tell  you. 
Ask  me  no  more  at  present.    Trust  to  me. 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  325 

Ye  may  trust  safely.  By  the  living  God, 
Ye  give  him  over,  not  to  his  good  angel ! 
Farewell.  {Exit  BUTLER. 

SERVANT  (enters  with  a  billet). 
A  stranger  left  it,  and  is  gone. 
The  prince-duke's  horses  wait  for  you  below. 

{Exit  SERVANT 
OCTAVIO  (reads). 

"  Be  sure,  make  haste  !     Your  faithful  Isolani.  " 
—  O  that  I  had  but  left  this  town  behind  me. 
To  split  upon  a  rock  so  near  the  haven ! 
Away  !    This  is  no  longer  a  safe  place 
For  me !     Where  can  my  son  be  tarrying! 

SCENE  VII. 
OCTAVIO  and  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

MAX.  enters  almost  in  a  state  of  derangement,  from  ex- 
treme agitation ;  his  eyes  roll  icttdly,  his  walk  is 
unsteady,  and  he  appears  not  to  observe  his  father^ 
who  stands  at  a  distance,  and  gazes  at  him  with  a 
countenance  expressive  of  compassion.  He  paces 
with  long  strides  through  the  chamber,  then  stands 
still  again,  and  at  last  throws  himself  into  a  chairt 
staring  vacantly  at  the  object  directly  before  him. 

OCTAVIO  (advances  to  him). 
I  am  going  off,  my  son. 

\JReceimng  no  answer,  he  takes  his  hand. 
My  son,  farewell. 

MAX. 

Farewell. 

OCTAVIO. 
Thou  wilt  soon  follow  me? 

MAX. 

I  follow  thee? 
Thy  way  is  crooked  —  it  is  not  my  way. 

[OCTAVIO  drops  his  hand  and  starts  back. 
Oh,  hadst  thou  been  but  simple  and  sincere, 


326  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

Ne'er  had  it  come  to  this  —  all  had  stood  otherwise. 
He  had  not  done  that  foul  and  horrible  deed, 
The  virtuous  had  retained  their  influence  over  him : 
He  had  not  fallen  into  the  snares  of  villains. 
Wherefore  so  like  a  thief,  and  thief's  accomplice 
Didst  creep  behind  him  lurking  for  thy  prey! 
Oh,  unblest  falsehood  !     Mother  of  all  evil! 
Thou  misery-making  demon,  it  is  thou 
That  sinkest  us  in  perdition.     Simple  truth, 
Sustainer  of  the  world,  had  saved  us  all! 
Father,  I  will  not,  I  cannot  excuse  thee ! 
Wallenstein  has  deceived  me  —  oh,  most  foully ! 
But  thou  has  acted  not  much  better. 

OCTAVIO. 

Son 
My  son,  ah  !  I  forgive  thy  agony ! 

MAX.  (rises  and  contemplates  his  father  with 

looks  of  suspicion). 

Was't  possible  ?  hadst  thou  the  heart,  my  father, 
Hadst  thou  the  heart  to  drive  it  to  such  lengths, 
With  cold  premeditated  purpose?    Thou  — 
Hadsc  thou  the  heart  to  wish  to  see  him  guilty 
Rather  than  saved  ?     Thou  risest  by  his  fart. 
Octavio,  'twill  not  please  rue. 

OCTAVIO. 

God  in  heaven  1 
MAX. 

Oh,  woe  is  me !  sure  I  have  changed  my  nature. 
How  comes  suspicion  here — in  the  free  soul? 
Hope,  confidence,  belief,  are  gone;  for  all 
Lied  to  me,  all  that  I  e'er  loved  or  honored. 
No,  no  !  not  all !     She  —  she  yet  lives  for 
And  she  is  true,  and  open  as  the  heavens ! 
Deceit  is  everywhere,  hypocrisy, 
Murder,  and  poisoning,  treason,  perjury: 
The  single  holy  spot  is  our  love, 
The  only  unprofaned  in  human  nature. 

OCTAVIO. 

Max. !  —  we  will  go  together.     'Twill  be  better. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN  327 

MAX. 

What  ?  ere  I've  taken  a  last  parting  leave, 
The  very  last  —  no,  never ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Spare  thyself 

The  pang  of  necessary  separation. 
Come  with  me  !     Come,  my  son  ! 

[Attempts  to  take  Mm  with  him. 

MAX. 

No !  as  sure  as  God  lives,  no 

OCTAVIO  (more  urgently). 
Come  with  me,  I  command  thee !  I,  thy  father. 

MAX.- 
Command  me  what  is  human.     I  stay  here. 

OCTAVIO. 
Max. !  in  the  emperor's  name  I  bid  thee  come. 

MAX. 

No  emperor  has  power  to  prescribe 

Laws  to  the  heart ;  and  wouldst  thou  wish  to  rob  me 

Of  the  sole  blessing  which  my  fate  has  left  me, 

Her  sympathy?    Must  then  a  cruel  deed 

Be  done  with  cruelty?    The  unalterable 

Shall  I  perform  ignobly  —  steal  away, 

With  stealthy  coward  flight  forsake  her  ?    No ! 

She  shall  behold  my  suffering,  my  sore  anguish, 

Hear  the  complaints  of  the  disparted  soul, 

And  weep  tears  o'er  me.     Oh !  the  human  race 

Have  steely  souls  —  but  she  is  as  an  angel. 

From  the  black  deadly  madness  of  despair 

Will  she  redeem  my  soul,  and  in  soft  words 

Of  comfort,  plaining,  loose  this  pang  of  death  f 

OCTAVIO. 

Thou  wilt  not  tear  thyself  away ;  thou  canst  not. 
Oh,  come,  my  son!  I  bid  thee  save  thy  virtue. 


328  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN 

MAX. 

Squander  not  thou  thy  words  in  vain. 
The  heart  I  follow,  for  I  dare  trust  to  it. 

OCTAVIO  (trembling,  and  losing  all  self-command). 
Max. !  Max. !  if  that  most  damned  thing  could  be, 
If  thou  —  my  son — my  own  blood — (dare  I  think  it?) 
Do  sell  thyself  to  him,  the  infamous, 
Do  stamp  this  brand  upon  our  noble  house, 
Then  shall  the  world  behold  the  horrible  deed, 
And  in  unnatural  combat  shall  the  steel 
Of  the  son  trickle  with  the  father's  blood. 

MAX. 

Oh,  hadst  thou  always  better  thought  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  then  acted  better.     Curst  suspicion, 
Unholy,  miserable  doubt !     To  him 
Nothing  on  earth  remains  unwrenched  and  firm 
Who  has  no  faith. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  if  I  trust  thy  heart, 
Will  it  be  always  in  thy  power  to  follow  it  ? 

MAX. 

The  heart's  voice  thou  hast  not  o'erpowered  —  as  little 
Will  Wallenstein  be  able  to  o'erpower  it. 

OCTAVIO. 
O,  Max. !  I  see  thee  never  more  again ! 

MAX. 
Unworthy  of  thee  wilt  thou  never  see  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  go  to  Fraunberg  —  the  Pappenheimers 
I  leave  thee  here,  the  Lothrings  too ;  Tsokana 
And  Tiefenbach  remain  here  to  protect  thee. 
They  love  thee,  and  are  faithful  to  their  oath, 
And  will  far  rather  fall  in  gallant  contest 
Than  leave  their  rightful  leader  and  their  honor. 

MAX. 

Rely  on  this,  I  either  leave  my  life 

In  the  struggle,  or  conduct  them  out  of  Pilsen. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  329 

OCTAVIO. 

Farewell,  my  son  I 

MAX. 

Farewell ! 
OCTAVIO. 

How !  not  one  look 

Of  filial  love  ?    No  grasp  of  the  hand  at  parting? 
It  is  a  bloody  war  to  which  we  are  going, 
And  the  event  uncertain  and  in  darkness. 
So  used  we  not  to  part  —  it  was  not  so  ! 
Is  it  then  true  ?    I  have  a  son  no  longer  ? 

[MAX.  falls  into  his  arms,  they  hold  each  other  for  a 
long  time  in  a  speechless  embrace,  then  go  away  at 
different  sides. 

(  The  curtain  drops.) 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

A  chamber  in  the  house  of  the  Duchess  of  Friedland. 

COUNTESS  TERZKY,  THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN  (the  two 
latter  sit  at  the  same  table  at  work). 

COUNTESS  (watching  them  from  the  opposite  side). 
So  you  have  nothing  to  ask  me  —  nothing  ? 
I  have  been  waiting  for  a  word  from  you. 
And  could  you  then  endure  in  all  this  time 
Not  once  to  speak  his  name? 

[THEKLA  remaining  silent  the  COUNTESS  rises  and 
advances  to  her. 

Why,  how  comes  this  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  already  grown  superfluous, 
And  other  ways  exist,  besides  through  me  ? 
Confess  it  to  me,  Thekla :  have  you  seen  him 

THEKLA. 

To-day  and  yesterday  I  have  not  seen  him. 

COUNTESS. 
And  not  heard  from  him,  either  ?    Come,  be  open. 


330  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

THEKLA. 

No  syllable. 

COUNTESS. 

And  still  you  are  so  calm? 

THEKLA. 

I  am. 

COUNTESS. 

May  it  please  you,  leave  us,  Lady  Neubrunn. 

\Exit  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

SCENE  II. 
The  COUNTESS,  THEKLA. 

COUNTESS. 

It  does  not  please  me,  princess,  that  he  holds 
Himself  so  still,  exactly  at  this  time. 

THEKLA. 

Exactly  at  this  time  ? 

COUNTESS. 

He  now  knows  all. 
'Twere  now  the  moment  to  declare  himself. 

THEKLA. 

If  I'm  to  understand  you,  speak  less  darkly. 

COUNTESS. 

'Twas  for  that  purpose  that  I  bade  her  leave  us. 

Thekla,  you  are  no  more  a  child.     Your  heart 

Is  no  more  in  nonage  :  for  you  love, 

And  boldness  dwells  with  love  —  that  you  have  proved 

Your  nature  moulds  itself  upon  your  father's 

More  than  your  mother's  spirit.     Therefore  may  you 

Hear  what  were  too  much  for  her  fortitude. 

THEKLA. 

Enough  :  no  further  preface,  I  entreat  you. 
At  once,  out  with  it !     Be  it  what  it  may, 
It  is  not  possible  that  it  should  torture  me 
More  than  this  introduction.     What  have  you 
To  say  to  me  ?     Tell  me  the  whole,  and  briefly  ! 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  331 

COUNTESS. 

You'll  not  be  frightened 

THEKLA. 

Name  it,  I  entreat  you. 
COUNTESS. 

It  lies  within  your  power  to  do  your  father 
A  weighty  service 

THEKLA. 

Lies  within  my  power. 
COUNTESS. 

Max.  Piccolomini  loves  you.     You  can  link  hun 
Indissolubly  to  your  father. 

THEKLA. 
I? 

What  need  of  me  for  that  ?    And  is  he  not 
Already  linked  to  him  ? 

COUNTESS. 

He  was. 

THEKLA. 

And  wherefore 
Should  he  not  be  so  now — not  be  so  always? 

COUNTESS. 
He  cleaves  to  the  emperor  too. 

THEKLA. 

Not  more  than  duty 
And  honor  may  demand  of  him. 

COUNTESS. 

We  ask 

Proofs  of  his  love,  and  not  proofs  of  his  honor. 
Duty  and  honor ! 

Those  are  ambiguous  words  with  many  meanings. 
You  should  interpret  them  for  him  :  his  love 
Should  be  the  sole  definer  of  his  honor. 

THEKLA. 

How? 


332  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

The  emperor  or  you  must  he  renounce. 

THEKLA. 

He  will  accompany  my  father  gladly 

In  his  retirement.     From  himself  you  heard, 

How  much  he  wished  to  lay  aside  the  sword. 

COUNTESS. 

He  must  not  lay  the  sword  aside,  we  mean ; 
He  must  unsheath  it  in  your  father's  cause. 

THEKLA. 

He'll  spend  with  gladness  and  alacrity 

His  life,  his  heart's  blood  in  my  father's  cause, 

If  shame  or  injury  be  intended  him. 

COUNTESS. 

You  will  not  understand  me.     Well,  hear  then  :  — 
Your  father  has  fallen  off  from  the  emperor, 
And  is  about  to  join  the  enemy 
With  the  whole  soldiery 

THEKLA. 

Alas,  my  mother  1 
COUNTESS. 

There  needs  a  great  example  to  draw  on 
The  army  after  him.     The  Piccolomini 
Possess  the  love  and  reverence  of  the  troops ; 
They  govern  all  opinions,  and  wherever 
They  lead  the  way,  none  hesitate  to  follow. 
The  son  secures  the  father  to  our  interests  — 
You've  much  in  your  hands  at  this  moment. 

THEKLA. 

Ah, 

My  miserable  mother !  what  a  death-stroke 
Awaits  thee !    No  !  she  never  will  survive  it. 

COUNTESS. 

She  will  accommodate  her  soul  to  that 
Which  is  and  must  be.     I  do  know  vour  mother: 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  333 

The  far-off  future  weighs  upon  her  heart 
With  torture  of  anxiety ;  but  is  it 
Unalterably,  actually  present, 
She  soon  resigns  herself,  and  bears  it  calmly. 

THEKLA. 

0  my  foreboding  bosom  !     Even  now, 
E'en  now  'tis  here,  that  icy  hand  of  horror ! 
And  my  young  hope  lies  shuddering  in  its  grasp; 

1  knew  it  well  —  no  sooner  had  I  entered, 
An  heavy  ominous  presentiment 

Revealed  to  me  that  spirits  of  death  were  hovering 
Over  my  happy  fortune.     But  why,  think  I 
First  of  myself ?    My  mother!    O  my  mother  1 

COUNTESS. 

Calm  yourself !    Break  not  out  in  vain  lamenting! 
Preserve  you  for  your  father  the  firm  friend, 
And  for  yourself  the  lover,  all  will  yet 
Prove  good  and  fortunate. 

THEKLA. 

Prove  good  !     What  good ! 
Must  we  not  part ;  part  ne'er  to  meet  again  ? 

COUNTESS. 
He  parts  not  from  you !     He  cannot  part  from  you. 

THBLKA. 

Alas,  for  his  sore  anguish  !     It  will  rend 
His  heart  asunder. 

COUNTESS. 

If  indeed  he  loves  you. 
His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken. 

THEKLA. 

His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken  — 
Oh,  do  not  doubt  of  that !     A  resolution  I 
Does  there  remain  one  to  be  taken  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Hush! 
Collect  yourself!     I  hear  your  mother  coming. 


334        THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 
THEKLA. 

How  shall  I  bear  to  see  her  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Collect  yourself. 

SCENE  III. 

To  them  enter  the  DUCHESS. 

DUCHESS  (to  the  COUNTESS). 

Who  was  here,  sister  ?    I  heard  some  one  talking, 
And  passionately,  too. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay !  there  was  no  one. 

DUCHESS. 

I  am  growing  so  timorous,  every  trifling  noise 
Scatters  my  spirits,  and  announces  to  me 
The  footstep  of  some  messenger  of  evil. 
And  you  can  tell  me,  sister,  what  the  event  is  ? 
Will  he  agree  to  do  the  emperor's  pleasure, 
And  send  the  horse  regiments  to  the  cardinal? 
Tell  me,  has  he  dismissed  Von  Questenberg 
With  a  favorable  answer? 

COUNTESS. 

No,  he  has  not. 
DUCHESS. 

Alas  !  then  all  is  lost !     I  see  it  coming, 
The  worst  that  can  come  !     Yes,  they  will  depose  him , 
The  accursed  business  of  the  Regensburg  diet 
Will  all  be  acted  o'er  again  ! 

COUNTESS. 

No !  never ! 
Make  your  heart  easy,  sister,  as  to  that. 

[THEKLA,  in  extreme  agitation,  throws  herself  upon 
her  mother,  and  enfolds  her  in  her  arms,  weeping. 

DUCHESS. 

Yes,  my  poor  child  ! 
Thou  too  hast  lost  a  most  affectionate  godmother 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  335 

In  the  empress.     Oh,  that  stern,  unbending  man  ! 

In  this  unhappy  marriage  what  have  I 

Not  suffered,  not  endured?     For  even  as  if 

I  had  been  linked  on  to  some  wheel  of  fire 

That  restless,  ceaseless,  whirls  impetuous  onward, 

I  have  passed  a  life  of  frights  and  horrors  with  him, 

An;l  ever  to  the  brink  of  some  abyss 

With  dizzy  headlong  violence  he  bears  me. 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  child.     Let  not  my  sufferings 

Presignify  unhappiness  to  thee, 

Nor  blacken  with  their  shade  the  fate  that  waits  thee. 

There  lives  no  second  Friedland  ;  thou,  my  child, 

Hast  not  to  fear  thy  mother's  destiny. 

THEKLA. 

Oh,  let  us  supplicate  him,  dearest  mother! 
Quick !  quick  !  here's  no  abiding-place  for  us. 
Here  every  coming  hour  broods  into  life 
Some  new  affrightful  monster. 

DUCHESS. 

Thou  wilt  share 

An  easier,  calmer  lot,  my  child !     We,  too, 
I  and  thy  father,  witnessed  happy  days. 
Still  think  I  with  delight  of  those  first  years, 
When  he  was  making  progress  with  glad  effort, 
When  his  ambition  was  a  genial  fire, 
Not  that  consuming  flame  which  now  it  is. 
The  emperor  loved  him,  trusted  him  ;  and  all 
He  undertook  could  not  but  be  successful, 
lint  since  that  ill-starred  day  at  Regensburg, 
Which  plunged  him  headlong  from  his  dignity, 
A  gloomy,  uncompanionable  spirit, 
Unsteady  and  suspicious,  has  possessed  him. 
His  quiet  mind  forsook  him,  and  no  longer 
Did  he  yield  up  himself  in  joy  and  faith 
To  his  old  luck  and  individual  power; 
But  thenceforth  turned  his  heart  and  best  affections 
All  to  those  cloudy  sciences  which  never 
Have  yet  made  happy  him  who  followed  them. 


336  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

You  sec  it,  sister!  as  your  eyes  permit  you, 

But  surely  this  is  not  the  conversation 

To  pass  the  time  in  which  we  are  waiting  for  him. 

You  know  he  will  be  soon  here.     Would  you  have  him 

Find  her  in  this  condition  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Come,  my  child ! 

Come,  wipe  away  thy  tears,  and  show  thy  father 
A  cheerful  countenance.     See,  the  tie-knot  here 
Is  off ;  this  hair  must  not  hang  so  dishevelled. 
Come,  dearest !  dry  thy  tears  up.     They  deform 
Thy  gentle  eye.     Well,  now  —  what  was  I  saying? 
Yes,  in  good  truth,  this  Piccolomini 
Is  a  most  noble  and  deserving  gentleman. 

COUNTESS. 
That  is  he,  sister ! 

THEKLA  (to  the  COUNTESS,  with  marks  of  great  oppression 
of  spirits). 

Aunt,  you  will  excuse  me  ?    (Is  going). 

COUNTESS. 
But,  whither?    See,  your  father  comes ! 

THEKLA. 

I  cannot  see  him  now. 

COUNTESS. 
Nay,  but  bethink  you. 

THEKLA. 

Believe  me,  I  cannot  sustain  his  presence. 

COUNTESS. 

But  he  will  miss  you,  will  ask  after  you. 

DUCHESS. 
What,  now?    Why  is  she  going? 

COUNTESS. 

She's  not  well. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  337 

DUCHESS  (anxiously). 
What  ails,  then,  my  beloved  child  ? 

[Both  follow  the  PRINCESS,  and  endeavor  to  detain 
her.  During  this  WALLENSTEIN  appears,  en- 
gaged in  conversation  with  ILLO. 

SCENE  IV. 
WALLENSTEIN,  ILLO,  COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  THEKLA. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
All  quiet  in  the  camp  ? 

ILLO. 
It  is  all  quiet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  a  few  hours  may  couriers  come  from  Prague 

With  tidings  that  this  capital  is  ours. 

Then  we  may  drop  the  mask,  and  to  the  troops 

Assembled  in  this  town  make  known  the  measure 

And  its  result  together.     In  such  cases 

Example  does  the  whole.     Whoever  is  foremost 

Still  leads  the  herd.     An  imitative  creature 

Is  man.     The  troops  at  Prague  conceive  no  other, 

Than  that  the  Pilsen  army  has  gone  through 

The  forms  of  homage  to  us ;  and  in  Pilsen 

They  shall  swear  fealty  to  us,  because 

The  example  has  been  given  them  by  Prague. 

Butler,  you  tell  me,  has  declared  himself? 

ILLO. 

At  his  own  bidding,  unsolicited, 

He  came  to  offer  you  himself  and  regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN, 

I  find  we  must  not  give  implicit  credence 
To  every  warning  voice  that  makes  itself 
Be  listened  to  in  the  heart.     To  hold  us  back, 
Oft  does  the  lying  spirit  counterfeit 
The  voice  of  truth  and  inward  revelation, 
Scattering  false  oracles.    And  thus  have  I 


338  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

To  entreat  forgiveness  for  that  secretly. 

I've  wronged  this  honorable  gallant  man, 

This  Butler  :  for  a  feeling  of  the  which 

I  am  not  master  (fear  I  would  not  call  it), 

Creeps  o'er  me  instantly,  with  sense  of  shuddering, 

At  his  approach,  and  stops  love's  joyous  motion. 

And  this  same  man,  against  whom  I  am  warned, 

This  honest  man  is  he  who  reaches  to  ine 

The  first  pledge  of  my  fortune. 

ILLO. 

And  doubt  not 

That  his  example  will  win  over  to  you 
The  best  men  in  the  army. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go  and  send 

Isolani  hither.     Send  him  immediately. 
He  is  under  recent  obligations  to  me  : 
With  him  will  I  commence  the  trial.     Go.      \_Exit  ILLO. 

WALLENSTEIN  (turns  himself  round  to  the  females). 
Lo,  there's  the  mother  with  the  darling  daughter. 
For  once  we'll  have  an  interval  of  rest  — 
Come  !  my  heart  yearns  to  live  a  cloudless  hour 
In  the  beloved  circle  of  my  family. 

COUNTESS. 
'Tis  long  since  we've  been  thus  together,  brother. 

WALLENSTEIN  (to  the  COUNTESS,  aside). 
Can  she  sustain  the  news  ?    Is  she  prepared  ? 

COUNTESS. 
Not  yet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come  here,  my  sweet  girl !   Seat  thee  by  me, 
For  there  is  a  good  spirit  on  thy  lips. 
Thy  mother  praised  to  me  thy  ready  skill ; 
She  says  a  voice  of  melody  dwells  in  thee, 
Which  doth  enchant  the  soul.     Now  such  a  voice 
Will  drive  away  from  me  the  evil  demon 
That  beats  his  black  wings  close  above  my  head. 


THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN.  339 

DUCHESS. 

Where  is  thy  lute,  my  daughter  ?    Let  thy  father 
Hear  some  small  trial  of  thy  skill. 

THEKLA. 


DUCHESS. 

Trembling?    Come,  collect  thyself.    Go,  cheer 
Thy  father. 

THEKLA. 

O  my  mother !     I  —  I  cannot. 

COUNTESS. 
How,  what  is  that,  niece  ? 

THEKLA  (to  the  COUNTESS). 

O  spare  me  —  sing  —  now  —  in  this  sore  anxiety, 
Of  the  overburdened  soul  —  to  sing  to  him 
Who  is  thrusting,  even  now,  my  mother  headlong 
Into  her  grave. 

DUCHESS. 

How,  Thekla !  Humorsome  ! 
What !  shall  thy  father  have  expressed  a  wish 
In  vain  ? 

COUNTESS. 
Here  is  the  lute. 

THEKLA. 

My  God  !  how  can  I  

[  The  orchestra  plays.  During  the  ritornello  THEKLA 
expresses  in  her  gestures  and  countenance  the 
struggle  of  her  feelings  ;  and  at  the  moment  that 
she  should  begin  to  sing,  contracts  herself  together, 
as  one  shuddering,  throws  the  instrument  down, 
and  retires  abruptly. 

DUCHESS. 
My  child !  Oh,  she  is  ill 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ails  the  maiden  ? 
Say,  is  she  often  so  ? 


340  THE   DEATH   OF   W  ALLEN  STEIK. 

COUNTESS. 

Since  then  herself 

Has  now  betrayed  it,  I  too  must  no  longer 
Conceal  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What? 

COUNTESS. 

She  loves  him ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Loves  him  ?    Whom? 

COUNTESS. 

Max.  does  she  love  !  Max.  Piccolomini ! 

Has  thou  never  noticed  it  ?    Nor  yet  my  sister  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Was  it  this  that  lay  so  heavy  on  her  heart  ? 
God's  blessing  on  thee,  my  sweet  child  !     Thou  needest 
Never  take  shame  upon  thee  for  thy  choice. 

COUNTESS. 

This  journey,  if  'twere  not  thy  aim,  ascribe  it 
To  thine  own  self.     Thou  shouldst  have  chosen  another 
To  have  attended  her. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  does  he  know  it  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes,  and  he  hopes  to  win  her ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hopes  to  win  her ! 
Is  the  boy  mad  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Well  —  hear  it  from  themselves. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  thinks  to  carry  off  Duke  Friedland's  daughter! 

Ay  ?    The  thought  pleases  me. 

The  young  man  has  no  groveling  spirit. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  341 

COUNTESS. 

Since 
Such  and  such  constant  favor  you  have  shown  him  — — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  chooses  finally  to  be  my  heir. 

And  true  it  is,  I  love  the  youth  ;  yea,  honor  him. 

But  must  he  therefore  be  my  daughter's  husband  ? 

Is  it  daughters  only  ?     Is  it  only  children 

That  we  must  show  our  favor  by  ? 

DUCHESS. 
His  noble  disposition  and  his  manners  — — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Win  him  my  heart,  but  not  my  daughter. 

DUCHESS. 

Then 
His  rank,  his  ancestors 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ancestors !    What  ? 
He  is  a  subject,  and  my  son-in-law 
I  will  seek  out  upon  the  thrones  of  Europe. 

DUCHESS. 

0  dearest  Albrecht !     Climb  we  not  too  high 
Lest  we  should  fall  too  low. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What !  have  I  paid 

A  price  so  heavy  to  ascend  this  eminence, 
And  jut  out  high  above  the  common  herd, 
Only  to  close  the  mighty  part  I  play 
In  life's  great  drama  with  a  common  kinsman  ? 

Have  I  for  this 

[Stops  suddenly \  repressing  himself. 

She  is  the  only  thing 
That  will  remain  behind  of  me  on  earth ; 
And  I  will  see  a  crown  around  her  head, 
Or  die  in  the  attempt  to  place  it  there. 

1  hazard  all  —  all !  and  for  this  alone, 


342  THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

To  lift  her  into  greatness  — 

Yea,  in  this  moment,  in  the  which  we  are  speaking - 

\_IIe  recollects  himself. 

And  I  must  now,  like  a  soft-hearted  father, 
Couple  together  in  good  peasant  fashion 
The  pair  that  chance  to  suit  each  other's  liking  — 
And  I  must  do  it  now,  even  now,  when  I 
Am  stretching  out  the  wreath  that  is  to  twine 
My  full  accomplished  work  —  no!  she  is  the  jewel, 
Which  I  have  treasured  long,  my  last,  my  noblest, 
And  'tis*  my  purpose  not  to  let  her  from  me 
For  less  than  a  king's  sceptre. 

DUCHESS. 

O  my  husband ! 

You're  ever  building,  building  to  the  clouds, 
Still  building  higher,  and  still  higher  building, 
And  ne'er  reflect,  that  the  poor  narrow  basis 
Cannot  sustain  the  giddy  tottering  column. 

WALLENSTEIN    (tO    the    COUNTESS). 

Have  you  announced  the  place  of  residence 
Which  I  have  destined  for  her  ? 

COUNTESS. 

No !  not  yet, 
Twere  better  you  yourself  disclosed  it  to  her. 

DUCHESS. 
How  ?    Do  we  not  return  to  Carinthia  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

No. 

DUCHESS. 

And  to  no  other  of  your  lands  or  seats  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  would  not  be  secure  there. 

DUCHESS. 

Not  secure 

In  the  emperor's  realms,  beneath  the  emperor's 
Protection  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  343 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Friedland's  wife  may  be  permitted 
No  longer  to  hope  that. 

DUCHESS. 

O  God  in  heaven ! 
And  have  you  brought  it  even  to  this ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  Holland 
You'll  find  protection. 

DUCHESS 

In  a  Lutheran  country  ? 
What  ?    And  you  send  us  into  Lutheran  countries  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Duke  Franz  of  Lauenburg  conducts  you  thither. 

DUCHESS. 

Duke  Franz  of  Lauenburg  ? 
The  alley  of  Sweden,  the  emperor's  enemy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  emperor's  enemies  are  mine  no  longer. 

DUCHESS  (casting  a  look  of  terror  on  the  DUKE  and  the 

COUNTESS). 

Is  it  then  true  ?    It  is.     You  are  degraded : 
Deposed  from  the  command  ?    O  God  in  heaven ! 

COUNTESS  (aside  to  the  DUKE). 
Leave  her  in  this  belief.     Tfrou  seest  she  cannot 
Support  the  real  truth. 

SCENE  V. 
To  them  enter  COUNT  TEBZKY. 

COUNTESS. 

Terzky! 

What  ails  him?    What  an  image  of  affright! 
He  looks  as  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 


344  THE   DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

TERZKY  (leading  WALLENSTEIN  aside). 
IB  it  thy  command  that  all  the  Croats  — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Mine! 

TERZKY. 

We  are  betrayed. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What? 

TERZKY. 

They  are  off!    This  night 
The  Jagers  likewise  —  all  the  villages 
In  the  whole  round  are  empty. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Isolani ! 

TERZKY. 

Him  thou  hast  sent  away.     Yes,  surely. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I? 
TERZKY. 

No  ?    Hast  thou  not  sent  him  off?    Nor  Deodati  ? 
They  are  vanished,  both  of  them. 

SCENE  VI. 
To  them  enter  ILLO. 

ILLO. 
Has  Terzky  told  thee  ? 

TERZKY. 

He  knows  all. 

ILLO. 

And  likewise 

That  Esterhatzy,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Kaunitz, 
Eolatto,  Palfi,  have  forsaken  thee. 

TERZKY. 

Damnation ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  345 

WALLENSTEIN  (winks  at  them). 
Hush! 

COUNTESS  (who  has  been  watching  them  anxiously  from 

the  distance  and  now  advances  to  them) . 
Terzky!    Heaven!    What  is  it?    What  has  happened? 
WALLENSTEIN  (scarcely  suppressing  his  emotions). 
Nothing !  let  us  be  gone ! 

TEBZKY  (following  him). 

Theresa,  it  is  nothing. 

COUNTESS  (holding  him  back). 
Nothing?    Do  I  not  see  that  all  the  life-blood 
Has  left  your  cheeks  —  look  you  not  like  a  ghost? 
That  even  my  brother  but  affects  a  calmness? 

PAGE  (enters). 
An  aide-de-camp  inquires  for  the  Count  Terzky. 

[TERZKY  follows  the  PAGE. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go,  hear  his  business. 

[T0  ILLO. 

This  could  not  have  happened 
So  unsuspected  without  mutiny. 
Who  was  on  guard  at  the  gates  ? 

ILLO. 

'Twas  Tiefenbach. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Let  Tienfenbach  leave  guard  without  delay, 
And  Terzky's  grenadiers  relieve  him. 

ILLO  (is  going). 

Stop! 
Hast  thou  heard  aught  of  Butler  ? 

ILLO. 

Him  I  met  : 

He  will  be  here  himself  immediately. 
Butler  remains  unshaken, 

[ILLO  exit.    WALLENSTEIN  is  following  him. 


346  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLEN STEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

Let  him  not  leave  thee,  sister!  go,  detain  him! 
There's  some  misfortune. 

DUCHESS  (clinging  to  him). 

Gracious  Heaven  !    What  is  it? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Be  tranquil!  leave  me,  sister!  dearest  wife! 
We  are  in  camp,  and  this  is  naught  unusual; 
Here  storm  and  sunshine  follow  one  another 
With  rapid  interchanges.     These  fierce  spirits 
Champ  the  curb  angrily,  and  never  yet 
Did  quiet  bless  the  temples  of  the  leader; 
If  I  am  to  stay  go  you.     The  plaints  of  women 
111  suit  the  scene  where  men  must  act. 

[He  is  (joing  :  TERZKY  returns, 

TERZKT. 

Remain  here.    From  this  window  must  we  see  it. 

WALLENSTEIN  (to  the  COUNTESS). 

Sister,  retire! 

COUNTESS. 

No  —  never ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  my  will. 
TERZKY  (leads  the  COUNTESS  aside,  and  drawing  her 

attention  to  the  DUCHESS). 
Theresa ! 

DUCHESS. 
Sister,  come  !  since  he  commands  it. 

SCENE  VII. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TERZKY. 
WALLENSTEIN  (stepping  to  the  window). 
What  now,  then  ?  . 

TERZKY. 

There  are  strange  movements  among  all  the  troops, 
And  no  one  knows  the  cause.     Mysteriously, 
With  gloomy  silentness,  the  several  corps 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  347 

Marshal  themselves,  each  under  its  own  banners ; 
Tiefenbach's  corps  make  threatening  movements  ;  only 
The  Pappenheirners  still  remain  aloof 
In  their  own  quarters  and  let  no  one  enter. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Does  Piccolomini  appear  among  them  ? 

TERZKY. 

We  are  seeking  him :  he  is  nowhere  to  be  met  with. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  did  the  aide-de-camp  deliver  to  you? 

TERZKY. 

My  regiments  had  despatched  him  ;  yet  once  more 

They  swear  fidelity  to  thee,  and  wait 

The  shout  for  onset,  all  prepared,  and  eager. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  whence  arose  this  larum  in  the  camp  ? 
It  should  have  been  kept  secret  from  the  army 
Till  fortune  had  decided  for  us  at  Prague. 

TERZKY. 

Oh,  that  thou  liadst  believed  me!     Yester-evening 
Did  we  conjure  thee  not  to  let  that  skulker, 
That  fox,  Octavio,  pass  the  gates  of  Pilsen. 
Thou  gavest  him  thy  own  horses  to  flee  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  old  tune  still  J     Now,  once  for  all,  no  more 
Of  this  suspicion  —  it  is  doting  folly. 

TERZKY. 

Thou  didst  confide  in  Isolani  too ; 

And  lo !  he  was  the  first  that  did  desert  thee. 

WALLENSTETN. 

It  was  but  yesterday  I  rescued  him 

From  abject  wretchedness.     Let  that  go  by; 

I  never  reckoned  yet  on  gratitude. 

And  wherein  doth  he  wrong  in  going  from  me  ? 


348  HE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

He  followb  ~dll  the  god  whom  all  his  life 
He  has  worshipped  at  the  gaming-table.     With 
My  fortune  and  my  seeming  destiny 
He  made  the  bond  and  broke  it,  not  with  me. 
I  am  but  the  ship  in  which  his  hopes  were  stowed, 
And  with  the  which,  well-pleased  and  confident, 
He  traversed  the  open  sea ;  now  he  beholds  it 
In  eminent  jeopardy  among  the  coast-rocks, 
And  hurries  to  preserve  his  wares.     As  light 
As  the  free  bird  from  the  hospitable  twig 
Where  it  had  nested  he  flies  off  from  me: 
No  human  tie  is  snapped  betwixt  us  two. 
Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived 
Who  seeks  a  heart  in  the  unthinking  man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead, 
Naught  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth: 
Quick  sensibility  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

TERZKY. 

Yet,  would  I  rather 
Trust  the  smooth  brow  than  that  deep  furrowed  one. 

SCENE  VIII. 
WALLENSTEIN,  TERZKY,  ILLO. 

ILLO  (who  enters  agitated  with  rage). 
Treason  and  mutiny ! 

TERZKY. 
And  what  further  now  ? 

ILLO. 

Tiefenbach's  soldiers,  when  I  gave  the  orders. 
To  go  off  guard  — mutinous  villains  ! 

TERZKY. 

Well! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  followed  ? 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  349 

ILLO. 

They  refused  obedience  to  them. 

TEKZKY. 
Fire  on  them  instantly !    Give  out  the  order. 

WALLENSTEDT. 

Gently  !  what  cause  did  they  assign  ? 

ILLO. 

No  other, 

They  said,  had  right  to  issue  orders  but 
Lieutenant-General  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN  (in  a  convulsion  of  agony). 
What?    How  is  that? 

ILLO. 

He  takes  that  office  on  him  by  commission, 
Under  sign-manual  from  the  emperor. 

TEBZKY. 

From  the  emperor  —  nearest  thou,  duke  ? 

ILLO. 

At  his  incitement 
The  generals  made  that  stealthy  flight  — 

TERZKY. 

Duke,  hearest  thou  ? 
ILLO. 

Caraffa  too,  and  Montecuculi, 

Are  missing,  with  six  other  generals, 

All  whom  he  had  induced  to  follow  him. 

This  plot  he  has  long  had  in  writing  by  him 

From  the  emperor ;  but  'twas  finally  concluded, 

With  all  the  detail  of  the  operation, 

Some  days  ago  with  the  Envoy  Questenberg. 

[WALLENSTEIN  sinks  down  into  a  chair  and  covers 
his  face. 

TERZKY. 

Oh,  hadst  thou  but  believed  me ! 


350  THE  DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  IX. 
To  them  enter  the  COUNTESS. 

COUNTESS. 

This  suspense, 

This  horrid  fear  —  I  can  no  longer  bear  it. 
For  heaven's  sake  tell  me  what  has  taken  place  ? 

ILLO. 

The  regiments  are  falling  off  from  us. 

TEKZKY. 

Octavio  Piccolomini  is  a  traitor. 
COUNTESS. 
O  my  foreboding !  [Rushes  out  of  the  room. 

TERZKY. 

Hadst  thou  but  believed  me! 
Now  seest  thou  how  the  stars  have  lied  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  stars  lie  not ;  but  we  have  here  a  work 

Wrought  counter  to  the  stars  and  destiny. 

The  science  is  still  honest :  this  false  heart 

Forces  a  lie  on  the  truth-telling  heaven, 

On  a  divine  law  divination  rests ; 

Where  nature  deviates  from  that  law,  and  stumbled 

Out  of  her  limits,  there  all  science  errs. 

True  I  did  not  suspect !     Were  it  superstition 

Never  by  such  suspicion  to  have  affronted 

The  human  form,  oh,  may  the  time  ne'er  come 

In  which  I  shame  me  of  the  infirmity. 

The  wildest  savage  drinks  not  with  the  victim, 

Into  whose  breast  he  means  to  plunge  the  sword. 

This,  this,  Octavio,  was  no  hero's  deed  : 

'Twas  not  thy  prudence  that  did  conquer  mine; 

A  bad  heart  triumphed  o'er  an  honest  one. 

No  shield  received  the  assassin  stroke  ;  thou  plungest 

Thy  weapon  on  an  unprotected  breast  — 

Against  such  weapons  I  am  but  a  child. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  351 

SCENE  X. 

To  these  enter  BUTLEB. 
TEBZKY  (meeting  him). 
Oh,  look  there,  Butler  !     Here  we've  still  a  friend ! 

ALLENSTEIN  (meets  him  with  outspread  arms  and  em- 
braces him  with  warmth. 

Come  to  my  heart,  old  comrade  !     Not  the  sun 
Looks  out  upon  us  more  revivingly, 
In  the  earliest  month  of  spring, 
Than  a  friend's  countenance  in  such  an  hour. 

BUTLER. 

My  general ;  I  come 

WALLENSTEIN  (leaning  on  BUTLER'S  shoulder). 
Knowest  thou  already 

That  old  man  has  betrayed  me  to  the  emperor. 
What  sayest  thou  ?     Thirty  years  have  we  together 
Lived  out,  and  held  out,  sharing  joy  and  hardship. 
We  have  slept  in  one  camp-bed,  drank  from  one  glass, 
One  morsel  shared  !     I  leaned  myself  on  him, 
As  now  I  lean  me  on  thy  faithful  shoulder, 
And  now  in  the  very  moment  when,  all  love, 
All  confidence,  my  bosom  beat  to  his 
He  sees  and  takes  the  advantage,  stabs  the  knife 
Slowly  into  my  heart. 

\_He  hides  his  face  on  BUTLER'S  breast. 

BUTLER. 

Forget  the  false  one. 
.What  is  your  present  purpose? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well  remembered! 

Courage,  my  soul !     I  am  still  rich  in  friends, 
Still  loved  by  destiny ;  for  in  the  moment 
That  it  unmasks  the  plotting  hypocrite 
It  sends  and  proves  to  me  one  faithful  heart. 
Of  the  hypocrite  no  more  !     Think  not  his  loss 
Was  that  which  struck  the  pang  :  Oh,  no!  his  treason 
Is  that  which  strikes  the  pang !     No  more  of  him  J 


S50  THE  DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  IX. 
To  them  enter  the  COUNTESS. 

COUNTESS. 

This  suspense, 

This  horrid  fear  —  I  can  no  longer  bear  it. 
For  heaven's  sake  tell  me  what  has  taken  place  ? 

ILLO. 

The  regiments  are  falling  off  from  us. 

TERZKY. 

Octavio  Piccolomini  is  a  traitor. 

COUNTESS. 

O  my  foreboding !  [Hushes  out  of  the  room. 

TERZKY. 

Hadst  thou  but  believed  me! 
Now  seest  thou  how  the  stars  have  lied  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  stars  lie  not ;  but  we  have  here  a  work 

Wrought  counter  to  the  stars  and  destiny. 

The  science  is  still  honest :  this  false  heart 

Forces  a  lie  on  the  truth-telling  heaven, 

On  a  divine  law  divination  rests ; 

Where  nature  deviates  from  that  law,  and  stumbles 

Out  of  her  limits,  there  all  science  errs. 

True  I  did  not  suspect !     Were  it  superstition 

Never  by  such  suspicion  to  have  affronted 

The  human  form,  oh,  may  the  time  ne'er  come 

In  which  I  shame  me  of  the  infirmity. 

The  wildest  savage  drinks  not  with  the  victim, 

Into  whose  breast  he  means  to  plunge  the  sword. 

This,  this,  Octavio,  was  no  hero's  deed  : 

'Twas  not  thy  prudence  that  did  conquer  mine; 

A  bad  heart  triumphed  o'er  an  honest  one. 

No  shield  received  the  assassin  stroke  ;  thou  plungest 

Thy  weapon  on  an  unprotected  breast  — 

Against  such  weapons  I  am  but  a  child. 


THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN.  351 

SCENE  X. 

To  these  enter  BUTLEB. 
TERZKY  (meeting  him). 
Oh,  look  there,  Butler  !     Here  we've  still  a  friend ! 

.^ALLENSTELN  (meets  him  with  outspread  arms  and  em- 
braces him  with  warmth. 

Come  to  my  heart,  old  comrade  !     Not  the  sun 
Looks  out  upon  us  more  revivingly, 
In  the  earliest  month  of  spring, 
Than  a  friend's  countenance  in  such  an  hour. 

BUTLEB. 

My  general ;  I  come 

WALLENSTEIN  (leaning  on  BUTLER'S  shoulder). 
Knowest  thou  already 

That  old  man  has  betrayed  me  to  the  emperor. 
What  sayest  thou  ?     Thirty  years  have  we  together 
Lived  out,  and  held  out,  sharing  joy  and  hai'dship. 
We  have  slept  in  one  camp-bed,  drank  from  one  glass, 
One  morsel  shared  !     I  leaned  myself  on  him, 
As  now  I  lean  me  on  thy  faithful  shoulder, 
And  now  in  the  very  moment  when,  all  love, 
All  confidence,  my  bosom  beat  to  his 
He  sees  and  takes  the  advantage,  stabs  the  knife 
Slowly  into  my  heart. 

{He  hides  his  face  on  BUTLER'S  breast. 

BUTLER. 

Forget  the  false  one. 
.What  is  your  present  purpose? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well  remembered ! 

Courage,  my  soul !     I  am  still  rich  in  friends, 
Still  loved  by  destiny  ;  for  in  the  moment 
That  it  unmasks  the  plotting  hypocrite 
It  sends  and  proves  to  me  one  faithful  heart. 
Of  the  hypocrite  no  more  !     Think  not  his  loss 
Was  that  which  struck  the  pang:  Oh,  no!  his  treason 
Is  that  which  strikes  the  pang !     No  more  of  him  J 


352  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

Dear  to  my  heart,  and  honored  were  they  both, 
And  the  young  man  —  yes  —  he  did  truly  love  me, 
He  —  he  —  has  not  deceived  me.     But  enough, 
Enough  of  this  —  swift  counsel  now  beseems  us. 
The  courier,  whom  Count  Kinsky  sent  from  Prague, 
I  expect  him  every  moment :  and  whatever 
He  may  bring  with  him  we  must  take  good  care 
To  keep  it  from  the  mutineers.     Quick  then ! 
Despatch  some  messenger  you  can  rely  on 
To  meet  him,  and  conduct  him  to  me. 

[!LLO  is  going 
BUTLER  (detaining  him). 

My  general,  whom  expect  you  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  courier 
Who  brings  me  word  of  the  event  at  Prague. 

BUTLER  (hesitating). 
Hem! 

WALLENSTEOT. 

And  what  now  ? 

BUTLER. 

You  do  not  know  it  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well? 

BUTLER. 

From  what  that  larum  in  the  camp  arose? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  what  ? 

BUTLER. 

That  courier 

WALLENSTEIN  (with  eager  expectation). 
Well? 

BUTLER. 

Is  already  here. 

TERZKT  and  ILLO  (at  the  same  time). 
Already  here  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIEN. 

My  courier? 

BUTLEE. 

For  some  hours. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  I  not  know  it  ? 

BUTLEE. 

The  sentinels  detain  him 
In  custody. 

ILLO  (stamping  with  his  foot). 
Damnation ! 

BUTLEE. 

And  his  letter 

Was  broken  open,  and  is  circulated 
Through  the  whole  camp. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  know  what  it  contains  ? 

BUTLEB. 

Question  me  not ! 

TEEZKY. 

Illo  !  alas  for  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hide  nothing  from  me  —  I  can  bear  the  worst. 
Prague  then  is  lost.    It  is.     Confess  it  freely. 

BUTLEE. 

Yes  !  Prague  is  lost.     And  all  the  several  regiments 

At  Budweiss,  Tabor,  Braunau,  Konigingratz, 

At  Brunn,  and  Znaym,  have  forsaken  you, 

And  taken  the  oaths  of  fealty  anew 

To  the  emperor.     Yourself,  with  Kinsky,  Terzky, 

And  Illo  have  been  sentenced. 

[TEEZKY  and  ILLO  express  alarm  and  fury.     WAL- 
LENSTEIN  remains  firm  and  collected. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Tis  decided ! 
'Tis  well !  I  have  received  a  sudden  cure 


356  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEItf. 

The  twigs  have  you  hewed  off,  and  here  I  stand 

A  leafless  trunk.     But  in  the  sap  within 

Lives  the  creating  power,  and  a  new  world 

May  sprout  forth  from  it.     Once  already  have  I 

Proved  myself  worth  an  army  to  you  —  I  alone! 

Before  the  Swedish  strength  your  troops  had  melted ; 

Beside  the  Lech  sank  Tilly,  your  last  hope  ; 

Into  Bavaria,  like  a  winter  torrent, 

Did  that  Gustavus  pour,  and  at  Vienna 

In  his  own  palace  did  the  emperor  tremble. 

Soldiers  were  scarce,  for  still  the  multitude 

Follow  the  luck:  all  eyes  were  turned  on  me, 

Their  helper  in  distress  ;  the  emperor's  pride 

Bowed  itself  down  before  the  man  he  had  injured. 

'Twas  I  must  rise,  and  with  creative  word 

Assemble  forces  in  the  desolate  camps. 

I  did  it.     Like  a  god  of  war  my  name 

Went  through  the  world.     The  drum  was  beat;  and,  lo! 

The  plough,  the  workshop  is  forsaken,  all 

Swarm  to  the  old  familiar  long-loved  banners ; 

And  as  the  wood-choir  rich  in  melody 

Assemble  quick  around  the  bird  of  wonder, 

When  first  his  throat  swells  with  his  magic  song, 

So  did  the  warlike  youth  of  Germany 

Crowd  in  around  the  image  of  my  eagle. 

I  feel  myself  the  being  that  I  was. 

It  is  the  soul  that  builds  itself  a  body, 

And  Friedland's  camp  will  not  remain  unfilled. 

Lead  then  your  thousands  out  to  meet  me  —  true! 

They  are  accustomed  under  me  to  conquer, 

But  not  against  me.     If  the  head  and  limbs 

Separate  from  each  other,  'twill  be  soon 

Made  manifest  in  which  the  soul  abode. 

(!LLO  and  TERZXY  enter.) 

Courage,  friends !  courage  !  we  are  still  unvanquished ', 
I  feel  my  footing  firm  ;  five  regiments,  Terzky, 
Are  still  our  own,  and  Butler's  gallant  troops  ; 
And  an  host  of  sixteen  thousand  Swedes  to-morrow. 
I  was  not  stronger  when,  nine  years  ago, 
I  marched  forth,  with  glad  heart  and  high  of  hope, 
To  conquer  Germany  for  the  emperor. 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  357 

SCENE  XIV. 
WALLENSTEIN,  ILLO,  TEEZKY. 

( To  them  enter  NEUMANN,  who  leads  TEKZKY  aside,  and 
talks  with  him.) 

TERZKY. 

What  do  they  want  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now? 

TERZKY. 

Ten  cuirassiers 

From  Pappenheim  request  leave  to  address  you 
In  the  name  of  the  regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN  (hastily  to  NEUMANN). 
Let  them  enter. 

\_Exit  NEUMANN. 

This 

May  end  in  something.    Mark  you.    They  are  still 
Doubtful,  and  may  be  won. 

SCENE  XV. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TERZKY,  ILLO,  ten  CUIRASSIERS  (led  by 
an  ANSPESSADE  *,  march  up  and  arrange  themselves, 
after  the  word  of  command,  in  one  front  before  the 
DUKE,  and  make  their  obeisance.  He  takes  his  hat  off, 
and  immediately  covers  himself  again). 

ANSPESSADE. 

Halt !    Front !    Present ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (after  he  has  run  through  them  with  his 
eye,  to  the  ANSPESSADE). 

I  know  thee  well.    Thou  art  out  of  Brtiggen  in  Flanders : 
Thy  name  is  Mercy. 

ANSPESSADE. 

Henry  Mercy. 

*  Anspessade,  in  German,  Gefreiter,  a  soldier  Inferior  to  a  corporal,  but 
above  the  sentinels.  The  German  name  implies  that  he  kexempt  from  mount- 
ing guard. 


358  THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  were  cut  off  on  the  march,  surrounded  by  the 
Hessians,  and  didst  fight  thy  way  with  an  hundred  and 
eighty  men  through  their  thousand. 

ANSPESSADE. 

'Twas  even  so,  general ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  reward  hadst  thou  for  this  gallant  exploit  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

That  which  I  asked  for :  the  honor  to  serve  in  this  corps. 

WALLENSTEIN  (turning  to  a  second). 
Thou  wert  among  the  volunteers  that  seized  and  made 
booty  of  the  Swedish  battery  at  Altenburg. 

SECOND   CUIRASSIER. 

Yes,  general ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  forget  no  one  with  whom  I  have  exchanged  words. 
(A  pause.)  Who  sends  you  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Your  noble  regiment,  the  cuirassiers  of  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Why  does  not  your  colonel  deliver  in  your  request 
according  to  the  custom  of  service  ? 

'  ANSPESSADE. 

Because  we  would  first  know  whom  we  serve. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Begin  your  address. 

ANSPESSADE  (giving  ike  word  of  command). 
Shoulder  your  arms! 

WALLENSTEIN  (turning  to  a  third). 
Thy  name  is  Risbeck;  Cologne  is  thy  birthplace. 

THTJRD   CUIRASSIER. 

Risbeck  of  Cologne. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  359 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  thou  that  broughtest  in  the  Swedish  colonel 
Diibald,  prisoner,  in  the  camp  at  Nuremberg. 

THIRD    CUIRASSIER. 

It  was  not  I,  general. 

WALLENSTEOT. 

Perfectly  right !    It  was  thy  elder  brother :  thouhadst 
a  younger  brother,  too :  where  did  he  stay  ? 

THIRD    CUIRASSIER. 

He  is  stationed  at  Olmtitz,  with  the  imperial  army. 

WALLENSTEIN  (to  the  ANSPESSADE). 

Now  then  —  begin. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  emperor 
Commanding  us 

WALLENSTEIN  (interrupting  him). 
Who  chose  you  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Every  company 
Drew  its  own  man  by  lot. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Now !  to  the  business. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  emperor 
Commanding  us,  collectively,  from  thee 
All  duties  of  obedience  to  withdraw, 
Because  thou  wert  an  enemy  and  traitor. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  what  did  you  determine  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

All  our  comrades 

At  Braunau,  Budweiss,  Prague,  and  Olmtitz,  have 
Obeyed  alreadv  ;  and  the  regiments  here, 
Tiefenbach  ancl  Toscano,  instantly 


360  THE   DEATH    OP   WALLENSTEIN. 

Did  follow  their  example.     But  — "but  we 

Do  not  believe  that  thou  art  an  enemy 

And  traitor  to  thy  country,  hold  it  merely 

For  lie  and  trick,  and  a  trumped-up  Spanish  story ! 

[  With  warmth, 

Thyself  shall  tell  us  what  thy  purpose  is, 
For  we  have  found  thee  still  sincere  and  true  : 
No  mouth  shall  interpose  itself  betwixt 
The  gallant  general  and  the  gallant  troops. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Therein  I  recognize  my  Pappenheimers. 

ANSPESSADE. 

And  this  proposal  makes  thy  regiment  to  thee : 

Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  preserve 

In  thine  own  hands  this  military  sceptre, 

Which  so  becomes  thee,  which  the  emperor 

Made  over  to  thee  by  a  covenant ! 

Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  remain 

Supreme  commander  of  the  Austrian  armies? 

We  will  stand  by  thee,  general !  and  guarantee 

Thy  honest  rights  against  all  opposition. 

And  should  it  chance,  that  all  the  other  regiments 

Turn  from  thee,  by  ourselves  we  will  stand  forth 

Thy  faithful  soldiers,  and,  as  is  our  duty, 

Far  rather  let  ourselves  be  cut  to  pieces 

Than  suffer  thee  to  fall.     But  if  it  be 

As  the  emperor's  letter  says,  if  it  be  true, 

That  thou  in  traitorous  wise  wilt  lead  us  over 

To  the  enemy,  which  God  in  heaven  forbid ! 

Then  we  too  will  forsake  thee,  and  obey 

That  letter 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hear  me,  children ! 

ANSPESSADE. 

Yes,  or  no 
There  needs  no  other  answer. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yield  attention. 
You're  men  of  sense,  examine  for  yourselves; 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  36J 

Ye  think,  and  do  not  follow  with  the  herd : 
And  therefore  have  I  always  shown  you  honor 
Above  all  others,  suffered  you  to  reason ; 
Have  treated  you  as  free  men,  and  my  orders 
Were  but  the  echoes  of  your  prior  suffrage. 

ANSPESSADE. 

Most  fair  and  noble  has  thy  conduct  been 

To  us,  my  general !     With  thy  confidence 

Thou  has  honored  us,  and  shown  us  grace  and  favor 

Beyond  all  other  regiments  ;  and  thou  seest 

We  follow  not  the  common  herd.     We  will 

Stand  by  thee  faithfully.     Speak  but  one  word  — 

Thy  word  shall  satisfy  us  that  it  is  not 

A  treason  which  thou  meditatest  —  that 

Thou  meanest  not  to  lead  the  army  over 

To  the  enemy;  nor  e'er  betray  thy  country. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Me,  me  are  they  betraying.     The  emperor 

Hath  sacrificed  me  to  my  enemies, 

And  I  must  fall,  unless  my  gallant  troops 

Will  rescue  me.     See !     I  confide  in  you. 

And  be  your  hearts  my  stronghold  !     At  this  breast 

The  aim  is  taken,  at  this  hoary  head. 

This  is  your  Spanish  gratitude,  this  is  our 

Requital  for  that  murderous  fight  at  Ltitzen  ! 

For  this  we  threw  the  naked  breast  against 

The  halbert,  made  for  this  the  frozen  earth 

Our  bed,  and  the  hard  stone  our  pillow  !  never  stream 

Too  rapid  for  us,  nor  wood  too  impervious  ; 

With  cheerful  spirit  we  pursued  that  Mansfeldt 

Through  all  the  turns  and  windings  of  his  flight : 

Yea,  our  whole  life  was  but  one  restless  march : 

And  homeless,  as  the  stirring  wind,  we  travelled 

O'er  the  war-wasted  earth.     And  now,  even  now, 

That  we  have  well-nigh  finished  the  hard  toil, 

The  unthankful,  the  curse-laden  toil  of  weapons^ 

With  faithful  indefatigable  arm 

Have  rolled  the  heavy  war-load  up  the  hill, 

Behold  !  this  boy  of  the  emperor's  bears  away 

The  honors  of  the  peace,  an  easy  prize ! 


862  THE   DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

He'll  weave,  forsooth,  into  his  flaxen  locks 

The  olive  branch,  the  hard-earned  ornament 

Of  this  gray  head,  grown  gray  beneath  the  helmel 

AXSPESSADE. 

That  shall  he  not,  while  we  can  hinder  it ! 

No  one,  but  thou,  who  has  conducted  it 

With  fame,  shall  end  this  war,  this  frightful  war. 

Thou  leadest  us  out  to  the  bloody  field 

Of  death  ;  thou  and  no  other  shalt  conduct  us  home, 

Rejoicing,  to  the  lovely  plains  of  peace  — 

Shalt  share  with  us  the  fruits  of  the  long  toil. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What !  Think  you  then  at  length  in  late  old  age 
To  enjoy  the  fruits  of  toil  ?    Believe  it  not. 
Never,  no  never,  will  you  see  the  end 
Of  the  contest !  you  and  me,  and  all  of  us, 
This  war  will  swallow  up  !     War,  war,  not  peace, 
Is  Austria's  wish  ;  and  therefore,  because  I 
Endeavored  after  peace,  therefore  I  fall. 
For  what  cares  Austria  how  long  the  wai 
Wears  out  the  armies  and  lays  waste  the  world ! 
She  will  but  wax  and  grow  amid  the  ruin 
And  still  win  new  domains. 

[  The  CUIRASSIERS  express  agitation  by  their  gestures, 

Ye're  moved  —  I  see 

A  noble  rage  flash  from  your  eyes,  ye  warriors ! 
Oh,  that  my  spirit  might  possess  you  now 
Daring  as  once  it  led  you  to  the  battle ! 
Ye  would  stand  by  me  with  your  veteran  arms, 
Protect  me  in  my  rights  ;  and  this  is  noble ! 
B.ut  think  not  that  you  can  accomplish  it, 
Your  scanty  number !  to  no  purpose  will  you 
Have  sacrificed  you  for  your  general.    [Confidentially. 
No !  let  us  tread  securely,  seek  for  friends  ; 
The  Swedes  have  proffered  us  assistance,  let  us 
Wear  for  a  while  the  appearance  of  good-will, 
And  use  them  for  your  profit,  till  we  both 
Carry  the  fate  of  Europe  in  our  hands, 
And  from  our  camp  to  the  glad  jubilant  world 
Lead  peace  forth  with  the  garland  on  her  head  ! 


THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN.  36# 

ANSPESSADE. 

Tis  then  but  mere  appearances  which  thou 
Dost  put  on  with  the  Swede  !    Thou'lt  not  betray 
The  emperor  ?    Wilt  not  turn  us  into  Swedes  ? 
This  is  the  only  thing  which  we  desire 
To  learn  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  care  I  for  the  Swedes  ? 
I  hate  them  as  I  hate  the  pit  of  hell, 
And  under  Providence  I  trust  right  soon 
To  chase  them  to  their  homes  across  their  Baltic. 
My  cares  are  only  for  the  whole :  I  have 
A  heai't  —  it  bleeds  within  me  for  the  miseries 
And  piteous  groanings  of  my  fellow-Germans. 
Ye  are  but  common  men,  but  yet  ye  think 
With  minds  not  common  ;  ye  appear  to  me 
Worthy  before  all  others,  that  I  whisper  thee 
A  little  word  or  two  in  confidence ! 
See  now  !  already  for  full  fifteen  years, 
The  war-torch  has  continued  burning,  yet 
No  rest,  no  pause  of  conflict.     Swede  and  German, 
Papist  and  Lutheran  !  neither  will  give  way 
To  the  other ;  every  hand's  against  the  other. 
Each  one  is  party  and  no  one  a  judge. 
Where  shall  this  end  ?    Where's  he  that  will  unravel 
This  tangle,  ever  tangling  more  and  more 
It  must  be  cut  asunder. 
I  feel  that  I  am  the  man  of  destiny, 
And  trust,  with  your  assistance,  to  accomplish  it. 

SCENE  XVI. 
To  these  enter  BUTLER. 

BUTLER  (passionately). 
General !  this  is  not  right ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  not  right? 

BUTLER. 

It  must  needs  injure  us  witli  all  honest  men. 


364  THE   DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  what? 

BUTLEB. 

It  is  an  open  proclamation 
Of  insurrection. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well,  well  —  but  what  is  it? 

BUTLEB. 

Count  Terzky's  regiments  tear  the  imperial  eagle 
From  off  his  banners,  and  instead  of  it 
Have  reared  aloft  their  arms. 

ANSPESSADE  (abruptly  to  the  CUIEASSIEES). 
Right  about !    March ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Cursed  be  this  counsel,  and  accursed  who  gave  it ! 

[  To  the  CUIRASSIERS,  irho  are  retiring 
Halt,  children,  halt !     There's  some  mistake  in  this; 
Hark !    I  will  punish  it  severely.     Stop  ! 
They  do  not  hear.     (TblLLo).     Go  after  them,  assure 

them, 
And  bring  them  back  to  me,  cost  what  it  may. 

[!LLO  hurries  out. 

This  hurls  us  headlong.     Butler  !  Butler ! 
You  are  my  evil  genius,  wherefore  must  you 
Announce  it  in  their  presence?    It  was  all 
In  a  fair  way.     They  were  half  won  !  those  madmen 
With  their  improvident  over-readiness  — 
A  cruel  game  is  Fortune  playing  with  me. 
The  zeal  of  friends  it  is  that  razes  me, 
And  not  the  hate  of  enemies. 

SCENE  XVII. 

To  these  enter  the  DUCHESS,  who  rushes  info  the  chamber; 
THEKLA  and  the  COUNTESS  follow  her. 

DUCHESS. 

O  Albrecht! 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  365 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  now  comes  this  beside. 

COUNTESS. 

Forgive  me,  brother  1     It  was  not  in  my  power  — 
They  know  all. 

DUCHESS. 

What  hast  thou  done 

COUNTESS  (to  TERZKY). 
Is  there  no  hope  ?    Is  all  lost  utterly  ? 

TERZKY. 

All  lost.     No  hope.     Prague  in  the  emperor's  hands, 
The  soldiery  have  taken  their  oaths  anew. 

COUNTESS. 

That  lurking  hypocrite,  Octavio ! 
Count  Max.  is  off  too. 

TERZKY. 

Where  can  he  be  ?    He's 
Gone  over  to  the  emperor  with  his  father. 

[THEKLA  rushes  out  into  the  arms  of  her  mother^ 
hiding  her  face  in  her  bosom. 

DUCHESS  (enfolding  her  in  her  arms). 
Unhappy  child !  and  more  unhappy  mother ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (aside  to  TERZKY). 
Quick !     Let  a  carriage  stand  in  readiness 
In  the  court  behind  the  palace.     Scherfenberg, 
Be  their  attendant ;  he  is  faithful  to  us. 
To  Egra  he'll  conduct  them,  and  we  follow. 

[  To  ILLO,  who  returns. 
Thou  hast  not  brought  them  back  ? 

ILLO. 

Hear'st  thou  the  uproar  ? 
The  whole  corps  of  the  Pappenheimers  is 
Drawn  out:  the  younger  Piccolomini, 
Their  colonel,  they  require :  for  they  affirm, 
That  he  is  in  the  palace  here,  a  prisoner  j 


366  THE   DEATH   OP   WALLENSTEIN. 

And  if  thou  dost  not  instantly  deliver  him, 
They  will  find  means  to  free  him  with  the  sword. 

[All  stand  amazed. 
TERZKY. 

What  shall  we  make  of  this  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Said  I  not  so  ? 

0  my  prophetic  heart !  he  is  still  here. 

He  has  not  betrayed  me  —  he  could  not  betray  me. 

1  never  doubted  of  it. 

COUNTESS. 
If  he  be 
Still  here,  then  all  goes  well ;  for  I  know  what 

[Embracing  THEKLA. 
Will  keep  him  here  forever. 

TERZKY. 

It  can't  be. 

His  father  has  betrayed  us,  is  gone  over 
To  the  emperor  —  the  son  could  not  have  ventured 
To  stay  behind. 

THEKLA  (her  eye  fixed  on  the  door). 
There  he  is ! 

SCENE  XVHI. 
To  these  enter  MAX.  PICCOLOMINI. 

MAX. 

Yes,  here  he  is  !     I  can  endure  no  longer 

To  creep  on  tiptoe  round  this  house,  and  lurk 

In  ambush  for  a  favorable  moment : 

This  loitering,  this  suspense  exceeds  my  powers. 

[Advancing  to  THEKLA,  who  has  thrown  herself 

into  her  mother's  arms. 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  away.     O  look  upon  me ! 
Confess  it  freely  before  all.    Fear  no  one. 
Let  who  will  hear  that  we  both  love  each  other. 
Wherefore  continue  to  conceal  it?    Secrecy 
Is  for  the  happy  —  misery,  hopeless  misery, 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  367 

Needeth  no  veil !     Beneath  a  thousand  suns 
It  dares  act  openly. 

[He  observes  the  COUNTESS  looking  on  THEKLA 
with  expressions  of  triumph. 
No,  lady !     No  ! 

Expect  not,  hope  it  not.     I  am  not  come 
To  stay  :  to  bid  farewell,  farewell  forever. 
For  this  I  come  !     'Tis  over !  I  must  leave  thee ! 
Thekla,  I  must  —  must  leave  thee!     Yet  thy  hatred 
Let  me  not  take  with  me.     I  pray  thee,  grant  me 
One  look  of  sympathy,  only  one  look. 
Say  that  thou  dost  not  hate  me.    Say  it  to  me,  Thekla ! 

[  Grasps  her  hand, 

0  God  !  I  cannot  leave  this  spot  —  I  cannot ! 
Cannot  let  go  this  hand.     O  tell  me,  Thekla ! 
That  thou  dost  suffer  with  me,  art  convinced 
That  I  cannot  act  otherwise. 

[THEKLA,  avoiding  his  look,  points  with  her  hand 
to  her  father.     MAX.  turns  round  to  the  DUKE, 
whom  he  had  not  till  then  perceived. 
Thou  here?    It  was  not  thou  whom  here  I  sought. 

1  trusted  never  more  to  have  beheld  thee, 
My  business  is  with  her  alone.     Here  will  I 
Receive  a  full  acquittal  from  this  heart ; 
For  any  other  I  am  no  more  concerned. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Think'st  thou  that,  fool-like,  I  shall  let  thee  go, 

And  act  the  mock-magnanimous  with  thee  ? 

Thy  father  is  become  a  villain  to  me ; 

I  hold  thee  for  his  son,  and  nothing  more : 

Nor  to  no  purpose  shalt  thou  have  been  given 

Into  my  power.     Think  not,  that  I  will  honor 

That  ancient  love,  which  so  remorselessly 

He  mangled.    They  are  now  passed  by,  those  hours 

Of  friendship  and  forgiveness.     Hate  and  vengeance 

Succeed  —  'tis  now  their  turn  —  I  too  can  throw 

All  feelings  of  the  man  aside  —  can  prove 

Myself  as  much  a  monster  as  thy  father ! 


368  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

MAX.  (calmly). 

Thou  wilt  proceed  with  me  as  thou  hast  power. 
Thou  knowest  I  neither  brave  nor  fear  thy  rage. 
What  has  detained  me  here,  that  too  thou  knowest. 

[  Taking  THEKLA  by  the  hand. 
See,  duke  !     All  —  all  would  I  have  owed  to  thee, 
Would  have  received  from  thy  paternal  hand 
The  lot  of  blessed  spirits.     This  hast  thou 
Laid  waste  forever — that  concerns  not  thee. 
Indifferent  thou  tramplest  in  the  dust 
Their  happiness  who  most  are  thine.     The  god 
Whom  thou  dost  serve  is  no  benignant  deity. 
Like  as  the  blind,  irreconcilable, 
Fierce  element,  incapable  of  compact, 
Thy  heart's  wild  impulse  only  dost  thou  follow.* 

*  I  have  here  ventured  to  omit  a  considerable  number  of  lines.  I  fear  that 
I  should  not  have  done  amiss  had  1  taken  this  liberty  mo  re*  frequently.  It  is, 
however,  incumbent  on  me  to  give  the  original,  with  a  literal  translation. 

"  Web.  denen,  die  auf  Dich  vertrami,  an  Dich 
Die  sichre  HUtte  ihres  Gliickes  lehnen, 
Gelockt  von  deiuer  geistlichen  Gestalt. 
Schnell  unverhofft,  bei  nachtlich  stiller  Weile 
Gahrts  in  dem  tuckschen  Feuerschlunde,  ladet 
Sich  aus  mit  tobender  Gewalt,  und  weg 
Treibt  iiber  alle  Pflanzungen  der  Menschen 
Der  wilde  Strom  in  grausender  Zerstorung. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

"  Du  schilderst  deines  Vaters  Herz.    "Wie  Du's 
Beschreibst,  so  ist's  in  seinem  Eingeweide, 
In  dieser  schwarzen  Heuchlers  Brust  gestaltet. 
Oh,  mich  hat  HOllenkunst  getauscht !    Mir  sandte 
Der  Abgrund  den  verflecktesten  der  fleister, 
Den  Liigenkimdigsten  herauf,  und  stellt'  ihn 
Als  Freund  an  meiner  Seite.    Wer  verrnag 
Der  Holle  Macht  zu  widerstehn  !    Ich  zog 
Den  Basilisken  auf  an  ineinem  Busen, 
Mit  melnem  Herzblut  nahrt  ich  ihn,  er  sog 
Sich  schwelgend  voll  an  meiner  Liebe  BrUsten, 
Ich  hatte  nimmer  Arges  gegen  ihn, 
Weit  otfen  liess  ich  des  Gedankens  Thore, 
Und  warf  die  Schliissel  weiser  Vorsicht  weg, 
Am  Sternenhimmel,"  etc. 

LITERAL    TRANSLATION. 

"  AlasI  for  those  who  place  their  confidence  on  thee,  against  thee  lean  th« 
secure  hut  of  their  fortune,  allured  by  thy  hospitable  form.  Suddenly,  unex- 
pectedly, in  a  moment  still  as  night,  there  is  a  fermentation  in  the  treach- 
erous gulf  of  fire;  it  discharges  itself  with  raging  force,  and  away  over  all 
the  plantations  of  men  drives  the  wild  stream  in  frightful  devastation. 
WALLENSTEIN.  —  Thou  art  portraying  thy  father's  heart ;  as  thou  describest, 
even  so  is  it  shaped  in  his  entrails,  iu  this  black  hypocrite's  breast.  Oh,  the 
art  of  hell  has  deceived  me  !  The  abyss  sent  up  to  me  the  most  spotted  o/ 


THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN.  369 

•WALLENSTKIN. 

Thou  art  describing  thy  own  father's  heart. 

The  adder !    Oh,  the  charms  of  hell  o'erpowered  me 

He  dwelt  within  me,  to  my  inmost  soul 

Still  to  and  fro  he  passed,  suspected  never. 

On  the  wide  ocean,  in  the  starry  heaven 

Did  mine  eyes  seek  the  enemy,  whom  I 

In  my  heart's  heart  had  folded !     Had  I  been 

To  Ferdinand  what  Octavio  was  to  me, 

War  had  I  ne'er  denounced  against  him.     No, 

I  never  could  have  done  it.     The  emperor  was 

My  austere  master  only,  not  my  friend. 

There  was  already  war  'twixt  him  and  me 

When  he  delivered  the  commander's  staff 

Into  my  hands ;  for  there's  a  natural 

Unceasing  war  'twixt  cunning  and  suspicion; 

Peace  exists  only  betwixt  confidence 

And  faith.    Who  poisons  confidence,  he  murders 

The  future  generations. 

MAX. 

.  I  will  not 

Defend  my  father.     Woe  is  me,  I  cannot ! 
Hard  deeds  and  luckless  have  taken  place ;  one  crime 
Drags  after  it  the  other  in  close  link. 
But  we  are  innocent :  how  have  we  fallen 
Into  this  circle  of  mishap  and  guilt  ? 
To  whom  have  we  been  faithless?     Wherefore  must 
The  evil  deeds  and  guilt  reciprocal 
Of  our  two  fathers  twine  like  serpents  round  us  ? 

Why  must  our  fathers' 
Unconquerable  hate  rend  us  asunder, 
Who  love  each  other  ? 

WALLENSTEIN". 

Max.,  remain  with  me. 
Go  you  not  from  me,  Max. !    Hark  !    I  will  tell  thee  — 

the  spirits,  the  most  skilful  in  lies,  and  placed  him  as  a  friend  by  my  side. 
"Who  may  withstand  the  power  of  hell?  1  took  the  basilisk  to  my  bosoni, 
with  my  heart's  blood  I  nourished  him;  he  sucked  himself  glutfull  at  the 
breasts  of  my  love.  I  never  harbored  evil  towards  him;  wide  open  did  I  leave 
the  door  of  my  thoughts;  I  threw  away  the  key  of  wise  foresight.  In  the 
starry  heaven,  etc."  We  find  a  difficulty  in  believing  this  to  have  been  written 
by  Schiller. 


370  .THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

How  when  at  Prague,  our  winter  quarters,  thou 

Wert  brought  into  my  tent  a  tender  boy, 

Not  yet  accustomed  to  the  German  winters  j 

Thy  hand  was  frozen  to  the  heavy  colors; 

Thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. 

At  that  time  did  I  take  thee  in  my  arms, 

And  with  my  mantle  did  I  cover  thee  ; 

I  was  thy  nurse,  no  woman  could  have  been 

A  kinder  to  thee ;  I  was  not  ashamed 

To  do  for  thee  all  little  offices, 

However  strange  to  me;  I  tended  thee 

Till  life  returned ;  and  when  thine  eyes  first  opened, 

I  had  thee  in  my  arms.     Since  then,  when  have 

Altered  my  feelings  toward  thee  ?    Many  thousands 

Have  I  made  rich,  presented  them  with  lands ; 

Rewarded  them  with  dignities  and  honors ; 

Thee  have  I  loved  :  my  heart,  my  self,  I  gave 

To  thee  ;    They  all  were  aliens :  thou  wert 

Our  child  and  inmate.*  Max. !  Thou  canst  not  leave  me ; 

It  cannot  be ;  I  may  not,  will  not  think 

That  Max.  can  leave  me.  • 

MAX. 

Oh,  my  God ! 

WALLENSTBDf 

I  have 

Held  and  sustained  thee  from  thy  tottering  childhood. 
What  holy  bond  is  there  of  natural  love, 
What  human  tie  that  does  not  knit  thee  to  me? 
I  love  thee,  Max. !     What  did  thy  father  for  thee, 
Which  I  too  have  not  done,  to  the  height  of  duty  ? 
Go  hence,  forsake  me,  serve  thy  emperor ; 
He  will  reward  thee  with  a  pretty  chain 
Of  gold ;  with  his  ram's  fleece  will  he  reward  thee  ; 
For  that  the  friend,  the  father  of  thy  youth, 

»  This  is  a  poor  and  inadequate  translation  of  the  affectionate  limplicity 
of  the  original  — 

Sie  alle  waren  Fremdlinge,  Du  warst 
Das  Kind  des  Hauses. 

Indeed  the  whole  speech  is  in  the  best  style  of  Masslnger.     O  si  tie 
omnia  ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  371 

For  that  the  holiest  feeling  of  humanity, 
Was  nothing  worth  to  thee. 

MAX. 

O  God !  how  can  I 

Do  otherwise.     Am  I  not  forced  to  do  it, 
My  oath  —  my  duty  —  my  honor 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How?    Thy  duty? 

Duty  to  whom  ?     Who  art  thou  ?    Max. !  bethink  thee 
What  duties  may'st  thou  have?     If  I  am  acting 
A  criminal  part  toward  the  emperor, 
It  is  my  crime,  not  thine.     Dost  thou  belong 
To  thine  own  self?    Art  thou  thine  own  commander? 
Stand'st  thou,  like  me,  a  freeman  in  the  world, 
That  in  thy  actions  thou  shouldst  plead  free  agency  ? 
On  me  thou  art  planted,  I  am  thy  emperor ; 
To  obey  me,  to  belong  to  me,  this  is 
Thy  honor,  this  a  law  of  nature  to  thee  ! 
And  if  the  planet  on  the  which  thou  livest 
And  hast  thy  dwelling,  from  its  orbit  starts 
It  is  not  in  thy  choice,  whether  or  no 
Thou'lt  follow  it.    Unfelt  it  whirls  thee  onward 
Together  with  his  ring,  and  all  his  moons. 
With  little  guilt  steppest  thou  into  this  contest ; 
Thee  will  the  world  not  censure,  it  will  praise  thee, 
For  that  thou  held'st  thy  friend  more  worth  to  thee 
Than  names  and  influences  more  removed 
For  justice  is  the  virtue  of  the  ruler, 
Affection  and  fidelity  the  subject's. 
Not  every  one  doth  it  beseem  to  question 
The  far-off  high  Arcturus.     Most  securely 
Wilt  thou  pursue  the  nearest  duty :  let 
The  pilot  fix  his  eye  upon  the  pole-star. 

SCENE  XIX. 

To  these  enter  NEUMANN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now  ? 


372        THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 
NEUMANN. 

The  Pappenbeimers  are  dismounted, 
And  are  advancing  now  on  foot,  determined 
With  sword  in  hand  to  storm  the  house,  and  free 
The  count,  their  colonel. 

WALLENSTEIN  (to  TERZKY). 

Have  the  cannon  planted. 
I  will  receive  them  with  chain-shot. 

\_Exit  TERZKY 

Prescribe  to  me  with  sword  in  hand  !     Go,  Neumann  ! 
'Tis  my  command  that  they  retreat  this  moment, 
And  in  their  ranks  in  silence  wait  my  pleasure. 

[NEUMANN  exit.    ILLO  steps  to  the  window, 

COUNTESS. 

Let  him  go,  I  entreat  thee,  let  him  go. 

ILLO  (at  the  window). 
Hell  and  perdition  1 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it? 

ILLO. 

They  scale  the  council-house,  the  roof's  uncovered, 
They  level  at  this  house  the  cannon  — 

MAX. 

Madmen 
ILLO. 
They  are  making  preparations  now  to  fire  on  us. 

DUCHESS  and  COUNTESS. 
Merciful  heaven ! 

MAX.  (to  WALLENSTEIN). 
Let  me  go  to  them ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not  a  step ! 

MAX.  (pointing  to  THEKLA  and  the  DUCHESS). 
But  their  life !     Thine ! 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  373 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  tidings  bringest  thou,  Terzky  ? 

SCENE  XX. 
To  these  TERZKY  returning 

TERZKY. 

Message  and  greeting  from  our  faithful  regiments. 
Their  ardor  may  no  longer  be  curbed  in. 
They  entreat  permission  to  commence  the  attack; 
And  if  thou  wouldst  but  give  the  word  of  onset 
They  could  now  charge  the  enemy  in  rear, 
Into  the  city  wedge  them,  and  with  ease 
O'erpower  them  in  the  narrow  streets. 

ILLO. 

Oh  come 

Let  not  their  ardor  cool.     The  soldiery 
Of  Butler's  corps  stand  by  us  faithfully  ; 
We  are  the  greater  number.     Let  us  charge  them 
And  finish  here  in  Pilsen  the  revolt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  shall  this  town  become  a  field  of  slaughter, 
And  brother-killing  discord,  fire-eyed, 
Be  let  loose  through  its  streets  to  roam  and  rage? 
Shall  the  decision  be  delivered  over 
To  deaf  remorseless  rage,  that  hears  no  leader? 
Here  is  not  room  for  battle,  only  for  butchery. 
Well,  let  it  be !     I  have  long  thought  of  it, 
tSo  let  it  burst  then  ! 

[  Turns  to  MAX. 
Well,  how  is  it  with  thee  ? 
Wilt  thou  attempt  a  heat  with  me.    Away ! 
Thou  art  free  to  go.     Oppose  thyself  to  me, 
Front  against  front,  and  lead  them  to  the  battle  ; 
Thou'rt  skilled  in  war,  thou  hast  learned  somewhat  under 

me, 

I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  opponent, 
And  never  hadst  thou  fairer  opportunity 
To  pay  me  for  thy  schooling. 


374  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

Is  it  then, 

Can  it  have  come  to  this  ?    What !  Cousin,  cousin ! 
Have  you  the  heart  ? 

MAX. 

The  regiments  that  are  trusted  to  my  care 

I  have  pledged  my  troth  to  bring  away  from  Pilsen 

True  to  the  emperor ;  and  this  promise  will  I 

Make  good,  or  perish.     More  than  this  no  duty 

Requires  of  me.     I  will  not  fight  against  thee, 

Unless  compelled  ;  for  though  an  enemy, 

Thy  head  is  holy  to  me  still, 

[  Two  reports  of  cannon.    ILLO  and  TBBZKY  hurry 
to  the  window. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What's  that? 

TBKZKY. 

He  falls. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Falls!    Who? 

ILLO. 

Tiefenbach's  corps 
Discharged  the  ordnance. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Upon  whom  ? 

ILLO. 

On  Neumann, 
Your  messenger. 

WALLENSTEIN  (starting  up). 

Ha !    Death  and  hell  I     I  will 

TERZKY. 

Expose  thyself  to  their  blind  frenzy  ? 

DUCHESS  and  COUNTESS. 

No! 
For  God's  sake,  no  I 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  375 

ILLO. 

Not  yet,  my  general ! 
Oh,  hold  him  1  hold  him ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Leave  me 

MAX. 

Do  it  not ; 

Not  yet !     This  rash  and  bloody  deed  has  thrown  them 
Into  a  frenzy-fit  —  allow  them  time 

WALLiSNSTEIN. 

Away!  too  long  already  have  I  loitered. 
They  are  emboldened  to  these  outrages, 
Beholding  not  my  face.  They  shall  behold 

My  countenance,  shall  hear  my  voice 

Are  they  not  my  troops  ?    Am  I  not  their  general, 

And  their  long-feared  commander!     Let  me  see, 

Whether  indeed  they  do  no  longer  know 

That  countenance  which  was  their  sun  in  battle ! 

From  the  balcony  (mark!)  I  show  myself 

To  these  rebellious  forces,  and  at  once 

Revolt  is  mounded,  and  the  high-swollen  current 

Shrinks  back  into  the  old  bed  of  obedience. 

[.Exit  WALLENSTEIN  ;  ILLO,  TERZKY,  and  BUTLER 
follow. 

SCENE  XXI. 
COUNTESS,  DUCHESS,  MAX.,  and  THEKLA. 

COUNTESS  (to  the  DUCHESS). 
Let  them  but  see  him  —  there  is  hope  still,  sister. 

DUCHESS. 
Hope  !  I  have  none ! 

MAX.. (who  during  the  last  scene  has  been  standing  at  a 
distance,  in  a  visible  struggle  of  feelings  advances). 

This  can  I  not  endure. 

With  most  determined  soul  did  I  come  hither ; 
My  purposed  action  seemed  unblamable 
To  my  own  conscience  —  and  I  must  stand  here 


376  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

Like  one  abhorred,  a  hard,  inhuman  being: 
Yea,  loaded  with  the  curse  of  all  I  love ! 
Must  see  all  whom  I  love  in  this  sore  anguish, 
Whom  I  with  one  word  can  make  happy  —  O! 
My  heart  revolts  within  me,  and  two  voices 
Make  themselves  audible  within  my  bosom. 
My  soul's  benighted ;  I  no  longer  can 
Distinguish  the  right  track.     Oh,  well  and  truly 
Didst  thou  say,  father,  I  relied  too  much 
On  my  own  heart.    My  mind  moves  to  and  fro  — 
I  know  not  what  to  do. 

COUNTESS. 

What !  you  know  not  ? 

Does  not  your  own  heart  tell  you  ?    Oh  !  then  I 
Will  tell  it  you.     Your  father  is  a  traitor, 
A  frightful  traitor  to  us  —  he  has  plotted 
Against  our  general's  life,  has  plunged  us  all 
In  misery  —  and  you're  his  son  !     'Tis  yours 
To  make  the  amends.     Make  you  the  son's  fidelity 
Outweigh  the  father's  treason,  that  the  name 
Of  Piccolomini  be  not  a  proverb 
Of  infamy,  a  common  form  of  cursing 
To  the  posterity  of  Wallenstein. 

MAX. 

Where  is  that  voice  of  truth  which  I  dare  follow! 
It  speaks  no  longer  in  my  heart.     We  all 
But  utter  what  our  passionate  wishes  dictate: 
Oh  that  an  angel  would  descend  from  heaven, 
And  scoop  for  me  the  right,  the  uncorrupted, 
With  a  pure  hand  from  the  pure  Fount  of  light. 

[His  eyes  glance  on  THEKLA 
What  other  angel  seek  I  ?     To  this  heart, 
To  this  unerring  heart,  will  I  submit  it ; 
Will  ask  thy  love,  which  has  the  power  to  bless 
The  happy  man  alone,  averted  ever 
From  the  disquieted  and  guilty  —  canst  thou 
Still  love  me,  if  I  stay  ?    Say  that  thou  canst, 
And  I  am  the  duke's 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTE1N.  377 

COUNTESS. 

Think,  niece 

MAX. 

Think  nothing,  Thekla ! 
Speak  what  thou  feelest. 

COUNTESS. 

Think  upon  your  father. 
MAX. 

I  did  not  question  thee,  as  Friedland's  daughter. 
Thee,  the  beloved  and  the  unerring  God 
Within  thy  heart,  I  question.     What's  at  stake  ? 
Not  whether  diadem  of  royalty 
Be  to  be  won  or  not  —  that  mightest  thou  think  on. 
Thy  friend,  and  his  soul's  quiet  are  at  stake : 
The  fortune  of  a  thousand  gallant  men, 
Who  will  all  follow  me  ;  shall  I  forswear 
My  oath  and  duty  to  the  emperor? 
Say,  shall  I  send  into  Octavio's  camp 
The  parricidal  ball  ?    For  when  the  ball 
Has  left  its  cannon,  and  is  on  its  flight, 
It  is  no  longer  a  dead  instrument ! 
It  lives,  a  spirit  passes  into  it ; 
The  avenging  furies  seize  possession  of  it, 
And  with  sure  malice,  guide  it  the  worst  way. 

THEKLA. 

Oh!  Max. 

MAX.  (interrupting  her). 

Nay,  not  precipitately  either,  Thekla. 
T  understand  thee.     To  thy  noble  heart 
The  hardest  duty  might  appear  the  highest. 
The  human,  not  the  great  part,  would  I  act. 
Even  from  my  childhood  to  this  present  hour, 
Think  what  the  duke  has  done  for  me,  how  loved  me 
And  think,  too,  how  my  father  has  repaid  him. 
Oh  likewise  the  free  lovely  impulses 
Of  hospitality,  the  pious  friend's 
Faithful  attachment,  these,  too,  are  a  holy 
Religion  to  the  heart ;  and  heavily 
The  shudderings  of  nature  do  avenge 


378  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

Themselves  on  the  barbarian  that  insults  them. 
Lay  all  upon  the  balance,  all  —  then  speak, 
And  let  thy  heart  decide  it. 

THEKLA. 

Oh,  thy  own 
Hath  long  ago  decided.    Follow  thou 

Thy  heart's  first  feeling 

COUNTESS. 

Oh !  ill-fated  woman ! 

THEKLA. 

Is  it  possible,  that  that  can  be  the  right, 

The  which  thy  tender  heart  did  not  at  first 

Detect  and  seize  with  instant  impulse?    Go, 

Fulfil  thy  duty  !     I  should  ever  love  thee. 

Whate'er  thou  hast  chosen,  thou  wouldst  still  have  acted 

Nobly  and  worthy  of  thee  —  but  repentance 

Shall  ne'er  disturb  thy  soul's  fair  peace. 

MAX. 

Then  I 
Must  leave  thee,  must  part  from  thee ! 

THEKLA. 

Being  faithful 

To  thine  own  self,  thou  art  faithful,  too,  to  me : 

If  our  fates  part,  our  hearts  remain  united. 

A  bloody  hatred  will  divide  forever 

The  houses  Piccolomini  and  Friedland  ; 

But  we  belong  not  to  our  houses.     Go  ! 

Quick  !  quick  !  and  separate  thy  righteous  cause 

From  our  unholy  and  unblessed  one ! 

The  curse  of  heaven  lies  upon  our  head  : 

'Tis  dedicate  to  ruin.     Even  me 

My  father's  guilt  drags  with  it  to  perdition. 

Mourn  not  for  me  : 

My  destiny  will  quickly  be  decided. 

[MAX.  clasps  her  in  his  arms  in  extreme  emotion. 
There  is  heard  from  behind  the  scene  a  loud, 
wild,  long-continued  cry,  Vivat  Ferdinand  us ! 
accompanied  by  warlike  instruments.  MAX.  and 
THEKLA  remain  without  motion  in  each  other's 
embraces. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WAUUEJSTSTEIN.  379 

•t 
SCENE  XXII. 

To  the  above  enter  TERZKT. 
COUNTESS  (meeting  him). 
What  meant  that  cry  ?    What  was  it  ? 

TERZKY. 

All  is  lost ! 

COUNTESS. 

What !  they  regarded  not  his  countenance  ? 

TERZKY. 

'Twas  all  in  vain. 

DUCHESS. 

They  shouted  Vivat  J 

TERZKY. 

To  the  emperor. 
COUNTESS. 
The  traitors 

TERZKY. 

Nay !  he  was  not  permitted 
Even  to  address  them.     Soon  as  he  began, 
With  deafening  noise  of  warlike  instruments 
They  drowned  his  words.     But  here  he  comes. 

SCENE  XXIII. 

To  these  enter  WALLENSTEIN,  accompanied  by  ILLO  and 
BUTLER. 

WALLENSTEIN  (as  he  enters}. 

Terzky ! 

TERZKY. 

My  general ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Let  our  regiments  hold  themselves 
In  readiness  to  march ;  for  we  shall  leave 
Pilsen  ere  evening.  [Exit  TERZKY. 

Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

Yes,  iny  general. 


380  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Governor  of  Egra  is  your  friend 
And  countryman.     Write  him  instantly 
By  a  post  courier.     He  must  be  advised, 
That  we  are  with  him  early  on  the  morrow. 
You  follow  us  yourself,  your  regiment  with  you. 

BUTLER. 

It  shall  be  done,  my  general ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (steps  between  MAX.  and  THEKLA,  who  have 
remained  daring  this  time  in  each  other's  arms). 

Part ! 

MAX. 

O  God'! 

[CUIRASSIERS  enter  with  drawn  swords,  and  assemble 
in  the  background.  At  the  same  time  there  are 
heard  from  below  some  spirited  passages  out  of 
the  Pappenheim  March,  which  seem  to  address 
MAX. 

WALLENSTEIN  (tO  the  CUIRASSIERS). 

Here  he  is,  he  is  at  liberty :  I  keep  him 
No  longer. 

[He  turns  away,  and  stands  so  that  MAX.  cannot 
pass  by  him  nor  approach  the  PRINCESS. 

MAX. 

Thou  know'st  that  I  have  not  yet  learnt  to  live 
Without  thee!  I  go  forth  into  a  desert, 
Leaving  my  all  behind  me.     Oh,  do  not  turn 
Thine  eyes  away  from  me  !     Oh,  once  more  show  me 
Thy  ever  dear  and  honored  countenance. 

[MAX.  attempts  to  take  his  hand,  but  is  repelled:  he 

turns  to  the  COUNTESS. 
Is  there  no  eye  that  has  a  look  of  pity  for  me  ? 

[  The  COUNTESS  turns  away  from  him  ;  he  turns  to 

the  DUCHESS. 
My  mother ! 

DUCHESS. 

Go  where  duty  calls  you.     Haply 
The  time  may  come  when  you  may  prove  to  us 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTELN.  381 

A  true  friend,  a  good  augel  at  the  throne 
Of  the  emperor. 

MAX. 

You  give  me  hope  ;  you  would  not 
Suffer  me  wholly  to  despair.     No !  no ! 
Mine  is  a  certain  misery.     Thanks  to  heaven  ! 
That  offers  me  a  means  of  ending  it. 

[  The  military  music  begins  again.     Tlie  stage  fills 

more  and  more  with   armed  men.     MAX.    sees 

BUTLER  and  addresses  him. 
And  you  here,  Colonel  Butler  —  and  will  you 
Not  follow  me  ?     Well,  then,  remain  more  faithful 
To  your  new  lord,  than  you  have  proved  yourself 
To  the  emperor.     Come,  Butler  !  promise  me. 
Give  me  your  hand  upon  it,  that  you'll  be 
The  guardian  of  his  life,  its  shield,  its  watchman. 
He  is  attainted,  and  his  princely  head 
Fair  booty  for  each  slave  that  trades  in  murder. 
Now  he  doth  need  the  faithful  eye  of  friendship, 

And  those  whom  here  I  see 

[Casting  suspicious  looks  on  ILLO  aud  BUTLER. 

ILLO. 

Go  —  seek  for  traitors 

In  Gallas',  in  your  father's  quarters.     Here  . 
Is  only  one.     Away  !  away  !  and  free  us 
From  his  detested  sight !     Away ! 

[MAX.  attempts  once  more  to  approach  THEKLA. 
W  ALLEN  STEIN  prevents  him.  MAX.  stands  irreso- 
lute, and  in  apparent  anguish.  In  the  meantime 
the  stage  fills  more  and  more;  and  the  horns 
sound  from  below  louder  and  louder,  and  each 
time  after  a  shorter  interval. 

MAX. 

Blow,  blow  !     Oh,  were  it  but  the  Swedish  trumpets, 
And  all  the  naked  swords,  which  I  see  here, 
Were  plunged  into  my  breast !     What  purpose  you  ? 
You  come  to  tear  me  from  this  place !     Beware, 
Ye  drive  me  not  to  desperation.     Do  it  not ! 
Ye  may  repent  it ! 

[  The,  stage  is  entirely  filled  with  armed  men. 


382  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

Yet  more  !  weight  upon  weight  to  drag  nie  down 
Think  what  ye're  doing.     It  is  not  well  done 
To  choose  a  man  despairing  for  your  leader ; 
You  tear  me  from  my  happiness.     Well,  then, 
I  dedicate  your  souls  to  vengeance.     Mark ! 
For  your  own  ruin  you  have  chosen  me  : 
"Who  goes  with  me  must  be  prepared  to  perish. 

[He  turns  to  the  background ;  there  ensues  a  sudden 
and  violent  movement  among  the  CUIRASSIERS  ; 
they  surround  him,  and  carry  him  off  in  wild 
tumult.  WALLENSTEIN  remains  immovable. 
THEKLA  sinks  into  her  mother's  arms.  The  cur- 
tain falls.  The  music  becomes  loud  and  over- 
powering, and  passes  into  a  complete  war-march 
—  the  orchestra  joins  it  —  and  continues  during 
the  interval  between  the  second  and  third  acts. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 
The  BURGOMASTER'S  house  at  Egra. 

BUTLER  (just  arrived}. 
Here  then  he  is  by  his  destiny  conducted. 
Here,  Friedland  !  and  no  further  !     From  Bohemia 
Thy  meteor  rose,  traversed  the  sky  awhile, 
And  here  upon  the  borders  of  Bohemia 
Must  sink. 

Thou  hast  forsworn  the  ancient  colors, 
Blind  man  !  yet  trustest  to  thy  ancient  fortunes. 
Profaner  of  the  altar  and  the  hearth, 
Against  thy  emperor  and  fellow-citizens 
Thou  meanest  to  wage  the  war.     Friedland,  beware  — 
The  evil  spirit  of  revenge  impels  thee  — 
Beware  thou,  that  revenge  destroy  thee  not ! 

SCENE  II. 
BUTLER  and  GORDON. 

GORDON. 

Is  it  you  ? 
How  my  heart  sinks !    The  duke  a  fugitive  traitor ! 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  383 

His  princely  head  attainted  !     Oh,  my  God ! 
Tell  me,  general,  I  implore  thee,  tell  me 
In  full,  of  all  these  sad  events  at  Pilsen. 

BUTLER. 

You  have  received  the  letter  which  I  sent  you 
By  a  post-courier  ? 

GORDON. 

Yes :  and  in  obedience  to  it 
Opened  the  stronghold  to  him  without  scruple, 
For  an  imperial  letter  orders  me 
To  follow  your  commands  implicitly. 
But  yet  forgive  me  !  when  even  now  I  saw 
The  duke  himself,  my  scruples  recommenced. 
For  truly,  not  like  an  attainted  man, 
Into  this  town  did  Friedland  make  his  entrance ; 
His  wonted  majesty  beamed  from  his  brow, 
And  calm,  as  in  the  days  when  all  was  right, 
Did  he  receive  from  me  the  accounts  of  office. 
'Tis  said,  that  fallen  pride  learns  condescensicn. 
But  sparing  and  with  dignity  the  duke 
Weighed  every  syllable  of  approbation, 
As  masters  praise  a  servant  who  has  done 
His  duty  and  no  more. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  all  precisely 

As  I  related  in  my  .etter.     Friedland 
Has  sold  the  army  to  the  enemy, 
And  pledged  himself  to  give  up  Prague  and  Egra. 
On  this  report  the  regiments  all  forsook  him, 
The  five  excepted   that  belong  to  Terzky, 
And  which  have  followed  him,  as  thou  hast  seen. 
The  sentence  of  attainder  is  passed  on  him, 
And  every  loyal  subject  is  required 
To  give  him  in  to  justice,  dead  or  living. 

GORDON. 

A  traitor  to  the  emperor.     Such  a  noble ! 

Of  such  high  talents  !     What  is  human  greatness? 

I  often  said,  this  can't  end  happily. 

His  might,  his  greatness,  and  this  obscure  power 


384  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

Are  but  a  covered  pitfall.     The  human  being 

May  not  be  trusted  to  self-government. 

The  clear  and  written  law,  the  deep-trod  footmarks 

Of  ancient  custom,  are  all  necessary 

To  keep  him  in  the  road  of  faith  and  duty. 

The  authority'  intrusted  to  this  man 

Was  unexampled  and  unnatural, 

It  placed  him  on  a  level  with  his  emperor, 

Till  the  proud  soul  unlearned  submission.     Woe  is  me; 

I  mourn  for  him !  for  where  he  fell,  I  deem 

Might  none  stand  firm.     Alas !  dear  general, 

We  in  our  lucky  mediocrity 

Have  ne'er  experienced,  cannot  calculate, 

What  dangerous  wishes  such  a  height  may  breed 

In  the  heart  of  such  a  man. 

BUTLER. 

Spare  your  laments 

Till  he  need  sympathy ;  for  at  this  present 
He  is  still  mighty,  and  still  formidable. 
The  Swedes  advance  to  Egra  by  forced  marches, 
And  quickly  will  the  junction  be  accomplished. 
This  must  not  be  !     The  duke  must  never  leave 
This  stronghold  on  free  footing  ;  for  I  have 
Pledged  life  and  honor  here  to  hold  him  prisoner, 
And  your  assistance  'tis  on  which  I  calculate. 

GORDON. 

O  that  I  had  not  lived  to  see  this  day! 
From  his  hand  I  received  this  dignity, 
He  did  himself  intrust  this  stronghold  to  me, 
Which  I  am  now  required  to  make  his  dungeon 
We  subalterns  have  no  will  of  our  own  : 
The  free,  the  mighty  man  alone  may  listen 
To  the  fair  impulse  of  his  human  nature. 
Ah !  we  are  but  the  poor  tools  of  the  law, 
Obedience  the  sole  virtue  we  dare  aim  at! 

BUTLER. 

Nay!  let  it  not  afflict  you,  that  your  power 
Is  circumscribed.     Much  liberty,  much  error ! 
The  narrow  path  of  duty  is  securest. 


THE    DEATH   OP   WALLENSTElN.  385 

GORDON. 

And  all  then  Lave  deserted  him  you  say? 
He  has  built  up  the  luck  of  many  thousands 
For  kingly  was  his  spirit :  his  full  hand 
Was  ever  open !     Many  a  one  from  dust 

[  With  a  sly  glance  on  BUTLER. 
Hath  he  selected,  from  the  very  dust 
Hath  raised  him  into  dignity  and  honor. 
And  yet  no  friend,  not  one  friend  hath  he  purchased, 
Whose  heart  beats  true  to  him  in  the  evil  hour. 

BUTLER. 

Here's  one,  I  see 

GORDON. 

I  have  enjoyed  from  him 
No  grace  or  favor.     I  could  almost  doubt, 
If  ever  in  his  greatness  he  once  thought  on 
An  old  friend  of  his  youth.     For  still  my  office 
Kept  me  at  distance  from  him  ;  and  when  first 
He  to  this  citadel  appointed  me, 
He  was  sincere  and  serious  in  his  duty. 
I  do  not  then  abuse  his  confidence, 
If  I  preserve  my  fealty  in  that 
Which  to  my  fealty  was  first  delivered. 

BUTLER. 

Say,  then,  will  you  fulfil  the  attainder  on  him, 
And  lend  your  aid  to  take  him  in  arrest? 

GORDON  (pauses,  reflecting —  then  as  in  deep  dejection). 
If  it  be  so  —  if  all  be  as  you  say  — 
If  he've  betrayed  the  emperor,  his  master, 
Have  sold  the  troops,  have  purposed  to  deliver 
The  strongholds  of  the  country  to  the  enemy  — 
Yea,  truly  !  —  there  is  no  redemption  for  him ! 
Yet  it  is  hard,  that  me  the  lot  should  destine 
To  be  the  instrument  of  his  perdition  ; 
For  we  were  pages  at  the  court  of  Bergau 
At  the  same  period ;  but  I  was  the  senior. 

BUTLER. 
I  have  heard  so 


386  THE   DEATH   OF    WALLENSTEIN. 


GORDON. 

"Pis  full  thirty  years  since  then, 
A  youth  who  scarce  had  seen  his  twentieth  year 
Was  Wallenstein,  when  he  and  I  were  friends : 
Yet  even  then  he  had  a  daring  soul : 
His  frame  of  mind  was  serious  and  severe 
Beyond  his  years:  his  dreams  were  of  great  objects 
Me  walked  amidst  us  of  a  silent  spirit, 
Communing  with  himself ;  yet  I  have  known  him 
Transported  on  a  sudden  into  utterance 
Of  strange  conceptions ;  kindling  into  splendor 
His  soul  revealed  itself,  and  he  spake  so 
That  we  looked  round  perplexed  upon  each  other, 
Not  knowing  whether  it  were  craziness, 
Or  whether  it  were  a  god  that  spoke  in  him. 

BUTLER. 

But  was  it  where  he  fell  two  story  high 

From  a  window-ledge,  on  which  he  had  fallen  asleep 

And  rose  up  free  from  injury  ?    From  this  day 

(It  is  reported)  he  betrayed  clear  marks 

Of  a  distempered  fancy. 

GORDON. 

He  became 

Doubtless  more  self-enwrapped  and  melancholy ; 
He  made  himself  a  Catholic.*     Marvellously 
His  marvellous  preservation  had  transformed  him. 
Thenceforth  he  held  himself  for  an  exempted 
And  privileged  being,  and, -as  if  he  were 
Incapable  of  dizziness  or  fall, 
He  ran  along  the  unsteady  rope  of  life. 
But  now  our  destinies  drove  us  asunder ; 
He  paced  with  rapid  step  the  way  of  greatness, 
Was  count,  and  prince,  duke-regent,  and  dictator, 
And  now  is  all,  all  this  too  little  for  him ; 
He  stretches  forth  his  hands  for  a  king's  crown, 
And  plunges  in  unfathomable  ruin. 

*  It  appears  that  the  account  of  his  conversion  being  caused  by  such  a 
fall,  and  other  stories  of  his  juvenile  character,  are  not  well  authenticated. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  387 

BUTLER. 

No  more,  he  comes. 

SCENE  III. 

To  these  enter  WALLENSTEIN,  in  conversation  with  the 
BURGOMASTER  of  Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  were  at  one  time  a  free  town.  I  see 
Ye  bear  the  half  eagle  in  your  city  arms. 
Why  the  half  eagle  only  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

We  were  free, 

But  for  these  last  two  hundred  years  has  Egra 
Remained  in  pledge  to  the  Bohemian  crown ; 
Therefore  we  bear  the  half  eagle,  the  other  half 
Being  cancelled  till  the  empire  ransom  us, 
If  ever  that  should  be. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  merit  freedom. 

Only  be  firm  and  dauntless.     Lend  your  ears 
To  no  designing  whispering  coui't-minions. 
What  may  your  imposts  be  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

So  heavy  that 

We  totter  under  them.     The  garrison 
Lives  at  our  costs. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  will  relieve  you.     Tell  me, 
There  are  some  Protestants  among  you  still  ? 

[  TJie  BURGOMASTER  hesitates. 
Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  it.     M»ny  He  concealed 

Within  these  walls.     Confess  now,  you  yourself 

{Fixes  his  eye  on  him.      The  BURGOMASTER 

alarmed. 

Be  not  alarmed.     I  hate  the  Jesuits. 
Could  my  will  have  determined  it  they  had 
Been  long  ago  expelled  the  empire.     Trust  me  — 


388  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

Mass-book  or  Bible,  'tis  all  one  to  me. 
Of  that  the  world  has  had  sufficient  proof. 
I  built  a  church  for  the  Reformed  in  Glogau 
At  my  own  instance.     Hark  ye,  burgomaster ! 
What  is  your  name  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

Pachhalbel,  my  it  please  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hark  ye !     But  let  it  go  no  further,  what  I  now 
Disclose  to  you  in  confidence. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  BURGOMASTER'S  shoulder 
with  a  certain  solemnity. 

The  times 

Draw  near  to  their  fulfilment,  burgomaster ! 
The  high  will  fall,  the  low  will  be  exalted. 
Hark  ye  !    But  keep  it  to  yourself !     The  end 
Approaches  of  the  Spanish  double  monarchy  — 
A  new  arrangement  is  at  hand.     You  saw 
The  three  moons  that  appeared  at  once  in  the  heaven  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

With  wonder  and  affright ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Whereof  did  two 

Strangely  transform  themselves  to  bloody  daggers, 
And  only  one,  the  middle  moon,  remained 
Steady  and  clear. 

BURGOMASTER. 

We  applied  it  to  the  Turks. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Turks  !   That  all  ?   T  tell  you  that  two  empires 
Will  set  in  blood,  in  the  East  and  in  the  West, 
And  Lutherism  alone  remain. 

[  Observing  GORDON  and  BUTLER. 

I'faith, 

'Twas  a  smart  cannonading  that  we  heard 
This  evening,  as  we  journeyed  hitherward: 
'Twas  on  our  left  hand.     Did  ve  hear  it  here  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  389 

GORDON. 

Distinctly.    The  wind  brought  it  from  the  south. 

BUTLEB. 

It  seemed  to  come  from  Weiden  or  from  Neustadt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

"Pis  likely.     That's  the  route  the  Swedes  are  taking. 
How  strong  is  the  garrison  ? 

GORDON. 

Not  quite  two  hundred 
Competent  men,  the  rest  are  invalids. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Good!     And  how  many  in  the  vale  of  Jochim? 
GORDON. 

Two  hundred  arquebusiers  have  I  sent  thither 
To  fortify  the  posts  against  the  Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Good !    I  commend  your  foresight.    At  the  works  too 
You  have  done  somewhat  ? 

GORDON. 

Two  additional  batteries 
I  caused  to  be  run  up.     They  were  needless ; 
The  Rhinegrave  presses  hard  upon  us,  general ! 


You  have  been  watchful  in  your  emperor's  service. 
I  am  content  with  you,  lieutenant-colonel. 

[To  BUTLER. 

Release  the  outposts  in  the  vale  of  Jochim, 
With  all  the  stations  in  the  enemy's  route. 

[To  GORDON. 

Governor,  in  your  faithful  hands  I  leave 
My  wife,  my  daughter,  and  my  sister.     I 
Shall  make  no  stay  here,  and  wait  but  the  arrival 
Of  letters  to  take  leave  of  you,  together 
With  all  the  regiments. 


390  THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  IV. 
To  these  enter  COUNT  TEEZKT. 

TERZKY. 

Joy,  general,  joy !    I  bring  you  welcome  tidings. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  what  may  they  be  ? 

TERZKY. 

There  has  been-  an  engagement 
At  Neustadt ;  the  Swedes  gained  the  victory. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  whence  did  you  receive  the  intelligence? 

TERZKY. 

A  countryman  from  Tirschenreut  conveyed  it. 
Soon  after  sunrise  did  the  fight  begin ! 
A  troop  of  the  imperialists  from  Tachau 
Had  forced  their  way  into  the  Swedish  camp; 
The  cannonade  continued  full  two  hours; 
There  were  left  dead  upon  the  field  a  thousand 
Imperialists,  together  with  their  colonel; 
Further  than  this  he  did  not  know. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  came 

Imperial  troops  at  Neustadt  ?    Altringer, 
But  yesterday,  stood  sixty  miles  from  there. 
Count  Gallas'  force  collects  at  Frauenberg, 
And  have  not  the  full  complement.     Is  it  possible 
That  Suys  perchance  had  ventured  so  far  onward? 
It  cannot  be. 

TERZKY. 

We  shall  soon  know  the  whole, 
For  here  comes  Illo,  full  of  haste,  and  joyous. 

SCENE  V. 
To  these  enter  ILLO. 
ILLO  (to  WALLENSTEIN). 
A  courier,  duke !  he  wishes  to  speak  with  thee. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  391 

TERZKY  (eagerly). 
Does  he  bring  confirmation  of  the  victory? 

WALLENSTEIN  (at  the  same  time). 
What  does  he  bring?    Whence  comes  he? 

ILLO. 

From  the  Rhinegrave, 
And  what  he  brings  I  can  announce  to  you 
Beforehand.     Seven  leagues  distant  are  the  Swedes ; 
At  Neustadt  did  Max.  Piccoloinini 
Throw  himself  on  them  with  the  cavalry ; 
A  murderous  fight  took  place!  o'erpowered by  numbers 
The  Pappenheirners  all,  with  Max.  their  leader, 

[WALLENSTEIN  shudders  and  turns  pale. 
Were  left  dead  on  the  field. 

WALLENSTEIN  (after  a  pause,  in  a  low  voice). 
Where  is  the  messenger?     Conduct  me  to  him. 

[WALLENSTEIN  is  going,  when  LADY  NEUBRUNN 
rushes  into  the  room.  Some  servants  follow 
her  and  run  across  the  stage. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Help!  Help! 

ILLO  and  TERZKY  (at  the  same  time). 
What  now  ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

The  princess ! 

WALLENSTEIN   and  TERZKY. 

Does  she  know  it  ? 

NEUBRUNN  (at  the  same  time  with  them). 
She  is  dying ! 

[Hurries  off  the  stage,  when  WALLENSTEIN  and 
TERZKY  follow  her. 

SCENE  VI. 
BUTLER  and  GORDON. 

GORDON. 
What's  this? 


392  THE   DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

BUTLEK. 

She  has  lost  the  man  she  loved  — 
Young  Piccolomini,  who  fell  in  the  battle. 

GORDON. 
Unfortunate  lady ! 

BUTLER. 

You  have  heard  what  Illo 
Reporteth,  that  the  Swedes  are  conquerers, 
And  marching  hitherward. 

GORDON. 

Too  well  I  heard  it. 

BUTLER. 

They  are  twelve  regiments  strong,  and  there  are  five 
Close  by  us  to  protect  the  duke.     We  have 
Only  my  single  regiment ;  and  the  garrison 
Is  not  two  hundred  strong. 

GORDON. 

'Tis  even  so. 

BUTLER. 

It  is  not  possible  with  such  small  force 
To  hold  in  custody  a  man  like  him. 

GORDON. 
I  grant  it. 

BUTLER. 

Soon  the  numbers  would  disarm  us, 
And  liberate  him. 

GORDON. 

It  were  to  be  feared. 

BUTLER  (after  a  pause). 

Know,  I  am  warranty  for  the  event ; 
With  my  head  have  I  pledged  myself  for  his, 
Must  make  my  word  good,  cost  it  what  it  will, 
And  if  alive  we  cannot  hold  him  prisoner, 
Why —  death  makes  all  things  certain  ! 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  393 

GORDON. 

Butler!    What? 
Do  I  understand  you  ?    Gracious  God !     You  could • 

BUTLER. 

He  must  not  live. 

GORDON. 

And  you  can  do  the  deed  ? 

BUTLER. 

Either  you  or  I.     This  morning  was  his  last. 

GORDON. 

You  would  assassinate  him  ? 

BUTLER. 

"Pis  my  purpose. 

GORDON. 

Who  leans  with  his  whole  confidence  upon  you ! 

BUTLER. 

Such  is  his  evil  destiny ! 

GORDON. 

Your  general ! 
The  sacred  person  of  your  general ! 

BUTLER. 
My  general  he  has  been. 

GORDON. 

That  'tis  only 

An  "has  been"  washes  out  no  villany, 
And  without  judgment  passed. 

BUTLER. 

The  execution 
Is  here  instead  of  judgment. 

GORDON. 

This  were  murder, 
Not  justice.    The  most  guilty  should  be  heard. 

BUTLER. 

His  guilt  is  clear,  the  emperor  has  passed  judgment, 
And  we  but  execute  his  will. 


394  THE   DEATH  OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

GORDON. 

We  should  not 

Hurry  to  realize  a  bloody  sentence. 
A  word  may  be  recalled,  a  life  never  can  be. 

BUTLER. 

Despatch  in  service  pleases  sovereigns. 

GORDON. 

No  honest  man's  ambitious  to  press  forward 
To  the  hangman's  service. 

BUTLER. 

And  no  brave  man  loses 
His  color  at  a  daring  enterprise. 

GORDON. 
A  brave  man  hazards  life,  but  not  his  conscience. 

BUTLER. 

What  then  ?    Shall  he  go  forth  anew  to  kindle 
The  unextinguishable  flame  of  war? 

GORDON. 
Seize  him,  and  hold  him  prisoner  —  do  not  kill  him. 

BUTLER. 

Had  not  the  emperor's  army  been  defeated 
I  might  have  done  so.    But  'tis  now  passed  by. 

GORDON. 
Oh,  wherefore  opened  I  the  stronghold  to  him  ? 

BUTLER. 

His  destiny,  and  not  the  place  destroys  him. 

GORDON. 

Upon  these  ramparts,  as  beseemed  a  soldier, 
I  had  fallen,  defending  the  emperor's  citadel ! 

BUTLER. 
Yes!  and  a  thousand  gallant  men  have  perished! 

GORDON. 

Doing  their  duty  —  that  adorns  the  man  ! 
But  murder's  a  black  deed,  and  nature  curses  it. 


THE    DEATH   Of   WALLENSTEIN.  395 

BUTLER  (brings  out  a  paper). 
Here  is  the  manifesto  which  commands  us 
To  gain  possession  of  his  person.     See  — 
It  is  addressed  to  you  as  well  as  me. 
Are  you  content  to  take  the  consequences, 
If  through  our  fault  he  escape  to  the  enemy  ? 

GORDON. 
I  ?    Gracious  God ! 

BUTLER. 

Take  it  on  yourself. 
Come  of  it  what  may,  on  you  I  lay  it. 

GORDON. 
Oh,  God  in  heaven ! 

BUTLER. 

Can  you  advise  aught  else 
Wherewith  to  execute  the  emperor's  purpose? 
Say  if  you  can.     For  I  desire  his  fall, 
Not  his  destruction. 

GORDON. 

Merciful  heaven !  what  must  be 
I  see  as  clear  as  you.    Yet  still  the  heart 
W'.thin  my  bosom  beats  with  other  feelings ! 

BUTLER. 

Mine  is  of  harder  stuff !    Necessity 
In  her  rough  school  hath  steeled  me.     And  this  Illo, 
And  Terzky  likewise,  they  must  not  survive  him. 

GORDON. 

I  feel  no  pang  for  these.     Their  own  bad  hearts 
Impelled  them,  not  the  influence  of  the  stars. 
'Twas  they  who  strewed  the  seeds  of  evil  passions 
In  his  calm  breast,  and  with  officious  villany 
Watered  and  nursed  the  poisonous  plants.     May  they 
Receive  their  earnests  to  the  uttermost  mite ! 

BUTLER. 

And  their  death  shall  precede  his ! 
We  meant  to  have  taken  them  alive  this  evening 
Amid  the  merrymaking  of  a  feast, 


396  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

And  keep  them  prisoners  in  the  citadel, 

But  this  makes  shorter  work.     I  go  this  instant 

To  give  the  necessary  orders. 

SCENE  VII. 
To  these  enter  ILLO  and  TERZKY. 

TEBZKY. 

Our  luck  is  on  the  turn.     To-morrow  come 
The  Swedes  —  twelve  thousand  gallant  warriors,  Illo ! 
Then  straightwise  for  Vienna.     Cheerily,  friend  ! 
What !  meet  such  news  with  such  a  moody  face  ? 

ILLO. 

It  lies  with  us  at  present  to  prescribe 
Laws,  and  take  vengeance  on  those  worthless  traitors 
Those  skulking  cowards  that  deserted  us ; 
One  has  already  done  his  bitter  penance, 
The  Piccolomini :  be  his  the  fate 
Of  all  who  wish  us  evil !     This  flies  sure 
To  the  old  man's   heart ;  he  has  his  whole  life  long 
Fretted  and  toiled  to  raise  his  ancient  house 
From  a  count's  title  to  the  name  of  prince; 
And  now  must  seek  a  grave  for  his  only  son. 

BUTLER. 

'Twas  pity,  though !     A  youth  of  such  heroic 
And  gentle  temperament  !     The  duke  himself, 
'Twas  easily  seen,  how  near  it  went  to  his  heart. 

ILLO. 

Hark  ye,  old  friend !     That  is  the  very  point 
That  never  pleased  me  in  our  general  — 
He  ever  gave  the  preference  to  the  Italians. 
Yea,  at  this  very  moment,  by  my  soul! 
He'd  gladly  see  us  all  dead  ten  times  over, 
Could  he  thereby  recall  his  friend  to  life. 

TERZKY. 

Hush,  hush  !    Let  the  dead  rest !   This  evening's  business 
Is,  who  can  fairly  drink  the  other  down  — 
Your  regiment,  Illo  !  gives  the  entertainment. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  397 

Come  !  we  will  keep  a  merry  carnival  — 

The  night  for  once  be  day,  and  'mid  full  glasses 

Will  we  expect  the  Swedish  avant-garde. 

ILLO. 

Yes,  let  us  be  of  good  cheer  for  to-day, 
For  there's  hot  work  before  us,  friends  !     This  sword 
Shall  have  no  rest  till  it  is  bathed  to  the  hilt 
In  Austrian  blood. 

GORDON. 

Shame,  shame  !  what  talk  is  this, 
My  lord  field-marshal?    Wherefore  foam  you  so 
Against  your  emperor  ? 

BUTLER. 

Hope  not  too  much 

From  this  first  victory.     Bethink  you,  sirs ! 
How  rapidly  the  wheel  of  fortune  turns  ; 
The  emperor  still  is  formidably  strong. 

ILLO. 

The  emperor  has  soldiers,  no  commander, 

For  this  King  Ferdinand  of  Hungary 

Is  but  a  tyro.     Gallas  ?    He's  no  luck, 

And  was  of  old  the  miner  of  armies. 

And  then  this  viper,  this  Octavio, 

Is  excellent  at  stabbing  in  the  back, 

But  ne'er  meets  Friedland  in  the  open  field. 

TERZKY. 

Trust  me,  my  friends,  it  cannot  but  succeed  ; 
Fortune,  we  know,  can  ne'er  forsake  the  duke! 
And  only  under  Wallenstein  can  Austria 
Be  conqueror. 

ILLO. 

The  duke  will  soon  assemble 
A  mighty  army:  all  come  crowding,  streaming 
To  banners,  dedicate  by  destiny 
To  fame,  and  prosperous  fortune.     I  behold 
Old  times  come  back  again  !  he  will  become 
Once  more  the  mighty  lord  which  he  has  been. 
How  will  the  fools,  who've  how  deserted  him, 


398  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

Look  then  ?    I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  of  them, 
For  lands  will  he  present  to  all  his  friends, 
And  like  a  king  and  emperor  reward 
True  services ;  but  we've  the  nearest  claims. 

I  To  GORDON. 

You  will  not  be  forgotten,  governor ! 
He'll  take  from  you  this  nest,  and  bid  you  shine 
In  higher  station  :  your  fidelity 
Well  merits  it. 

GORDON. 

I  am  content  already, 

And  wish  to  climb  no  higher ;  where  great  height  is, 
The  fall  must  needa  be  great.    "  Great  height,  great 
depth. " 

ILLO. 

Here  you  have  no  more  business,  for  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 
Come,  Terzky,  it  is  supper-time.     What  think  you  ? 
Nay,  shall  we  have  the  town  illuminated 
In  honor  of  the  Swede  ?    And  who  refuses 
To  do  it  is  a  Spaniard,  and  a  traitor. 

TERZKY. 
Xay !  nay !  not  that,  it  will  not  please  the  duke  — 

ILLO. 

What ;  we  are  masters  here  ;  no  soul  shall  dare 
Avow  himself  imperial  where  we've  the  rule. 
Gordon !  good-night,  and  for  the  last  time  take 
A  fair  leave  of  the  place.     Send  out  patrols 
To  make  secure,  the  watchword  may  be  altered. 
At  the  stroke  of  ten  deliver  in  the  keys 
To  the  duke  himself,  and  then  you've  quit  forever 
Your  wardship  of  the  gates,  for  on  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 

TERZKY  (as  he  is  going,  to  BUTLER). 
ifou  come,  though,  to  the  castle  ? 

BUTLER. 

At  the  right  time. 
\_Exeunt  TERZKY  and  ILLO 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  399 

SCENE  VIII. 
GORDON  and  BUTLER. 

GORDON  (looking  after  them). 
Unhappy  men  !     How  free  from  all  foreboding ! 
They  rush  into  the  outspread  net  of  murder 
In  the  blind  drunkenness  of  victory  ; 
I  have  no  pity  for  their  fate.     This  Illo, 
This  overflowing  and  foolhardy  villain, 
That  would  fain  bathe  himself  in  his  emperor's  blood. 

BUTLER. 

Do  as  he  ordered  you.     Send  round  patrols, 
Take  measures  for  the  citadel's  security ; 
When  they  are  within  I  close  the  castle-gate 
That  nothing  may  transpire. 

GORDON  (with  earnest  anxiety}. 

Oh !  haste  not  so ! 
Nay,  stop  ;  first  tell  me 

BUTLER. 

You  have  heard  already, 

To-morrow  to  the  Swedes  belongs.     This  night 
Alone  is  ours.     They  make  good  expedition. 
But  we  will  make  still  greater.     Fare  you  well. 

GORDON. 

Ah  !  your  looks  tell  me  nothing  good.     Nay,  Butler, 
I  pray  you  promise  me ! 

BUTLER. 

The  sun  has  set ; 

A  fateful  evening  doth  descend  upon  us, 
And  brings  on  their  long  night !     Their  evil  stars 
Deliver  them  unarmed  into  our  hands, 
And  from  their  drunken  dream  of  golden  fortunes 
The  dagger  at  their  hearts  shall  rouse  them.     Well, 
The  duke  was  ever  a  great  calculator  ; 
His  fellow-men  were  figures  on  his  chess-board 
To  move  and  station,  as  his  game  required. 
Other  men's  honor,  dignity,  good  name, 
Did  he  shift  like  pawns,  and  made  no  conscience  of 


400  THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEDT. 

Still  calculating,  calculating  still ; 
And  yet  at  last  his  calculation  proves 
Erroneous  ;  the  whole  game  is  lost ;  and  low! 
His  own  life  will  be  found  among  the  forfeits. 

GORDON. 

Oh,  think  not  of  his  errors  now  !  remember 
His  greatness,  his  munificence  ;  think  on  all 
The  lovely  features  of  his  character, 
On  all  the  noble  exploits  of  his  life, 
And  let  them,  like  an  angel's  arm,  unseen, 
Arrest  the  lifted  sword. 

BUTLEK. 

It  is  too  late. 

I  suffer  not  myself  to  feel  compassion, 
Dark  thoughts  and  bloody  are  my  duty  now. 

[  Grasping  GORDON'S  hand 
Gordon  !  'tis  not  my  hatred  (I  pretend  not 
To  love  the  duke,  and  have  no  cause  to  love  him). 
Yet  'tis  not  now  my  hatred  that  impels  me 
To  be  his  murderer.     'Tis  his  evil  fate. 
Hostile  occurrences  of  many  events 
Control  and  subjugate  me  to  the  office. 
In  vain  the  human  being  meditates 
Free  action.     He  is  but  the  wire-worked  *  puppet 
Of  the  blind  Power,  which,  out  of  its  own  choice, 
Creates  for  him  a  dread  necessity. 
What  too  would  it  avail  him  if  there  were 
A  something  pleading  for  him  in  my  heart  — 
Still  I  must  kill  him. 

GORDON. 

If  your  heart  speak  to  you 
Follow  its  impulse.     'Tis  the  voice  of  God. 
Think  you  your  fortunes  will  grow  prosperous 
Bedewed  with  blood  —  his  blood  ?    Believe  it  not! 

BUTLER. 

You  know  not.     Ask  not !     Wherefore  should  it  happen 
That  the  Swedes  gained  the  victory,  and  hasten 

*  We  doubt  the  propriety  of  putting  so  blasphemous  a  statement  in  the 
mouth  of  any  character.  —  T. 


THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  401 

With  such  forced  marches  hitherwards  ?    Fain  would  I 
Have  given  him  to  the  emperor's  mercy.     Gordon! 
I  do  not  wish  his  blood,  —  but  I  must  ransom 
The  honor  of  my  word,  —  it  lies  in  pledge  — 

And  he  must  die,  or 

[Passionately  grasping  GORDON'S  hand. 

Listen,  then,  and  know 
I  am  dishonored  if  the  duke  escape  us. 

GORDON. 
Oh  I  to  save  such  a  man 

BUTLER. 

What! 

GORDON. 

It  is  worth 

A  sacrifice.     Come,  friend  !    Be  noble-minded! 
Our  own  heart,  and  not  other  men's  opinions, 
Forms  our  true  honor. 

BUTLER  (with  a  cold  and  haughty  air). 

He  is  a  great  lord, 

This  duke,  and  I  am  of  but  mean  importance. 
This  is  what  you  would  say !     Wherein  concerns  it 
The  world  at  large,  you  mean  to  hint  to  me, 
Whether  the  man  of  low  extraction  keeps 
Or  blemishes  his  honor — 
So  that  the  man  of  princely  rank  be  saved  ? 
We  all  do  stamp  our  value  on  ourselves : 
The  price  we  challenge  for  ourselves  is  given  us. 
There  does  not  live  on  earth  the  man  so  stationed 
That  I  despise  myself  compared  with  him. 
Man  is  made  great  or  little  by  his  own  will; 
Because  I  am  true  to  mine  therefore  he  dies ! 

GORDON. 

I  am  endeavoring  to  move  a  rock. 
Thou  hadst  a  mother,  yet  no  human  feelings. 
I  cannot  hinder  you,  but  may  some  God 
Rescue  him  from  you ! 

[Exit  GORDON. 


402  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

BUTLEK*  (alone). 

I  treasured  my  good  name  all  my  life  long ; 
The  duke  has  cheated  me  of  life's  best  jewel, 
So  that  I  blush  before  this  poor  weak  Gordon! 
He  prizes  above  all  his  fealty ; 
His  conscious  soul  accuses  him  of  nothing; 
In  opposition  to  his  own  soft  heart 
He  subjugates  himself  to  an  iron  duty. 
Me  in  a  weaker  moment  passion  warped ; 
I  stand  beside  him,  and  must  feel  myself 
The  worst  man  of  the  two.     What  though  the  world 
Is  ignorant  of  my  purposed  treason,  yet 
One  man  does  know  it,  and  can  prove  it,  too  — 
High-minded  Piccolomini ! 
There  lives  the  man  who  can  dishonor  me ! 
This  ignominy  blood  alone  can  cleanse  ! 
Duke  Friedland,  thou  or  I.     Into  my  own  hands 
Fortune  delivers  me.    The  dearest  thing  a  man  has  is 
himself. 

SCENE  IX. 

[A  gothic  and  gloomy  apartment  at  the  DUCHESS  FRIED- 
LAND'S.  THEKLA  on  a  seat,  pale,  her  eyes  closed. 
The  DUCHESS  and  LADY  NEUBRUNN  busied  about 
her.  WALLENSTEIN  and  the  COUNTESS  in  conversa- 
tion. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  knew  she  it  so  soon  ? 

COUNTESS. 

She  seems  to  have 

Foreboded  some  misfortune.     The  report 
Of  an  engagement,  in  which  had  fallen 
A  colonel  of  the  imperial  army,  frightened  her. 
I  saw  it  instantly.     She  flew  to  meet 
The  Swedish  courier,  and  with  sudden  questioning, 
Soon  wrested  from  him  the  disastrous  secret. 

*  [This  soliloquy,  which,  according  to  the  former  arrangement,  constituted 
the  whole  of  scene  ix.,  and  concluded  the  fourth  act,  is  omitted  in  all  the 
printed  German  editions.  It  seems  probable  that  it  existed  in  the  original 
manuscript  from  which  Mr.  Coleridge  translated.  —  ED.] 


THE    DEATH    OF   W  ALLEN  STEIN.  403 

Too  late  we  missed  her,  hastened  after  her, 
We  found  her  lying  in  his  arms,  all  pale, 
And  in  a  swoon. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  heavy,  heavy  blow ! 
And  she  so  unprepared  !     Poor  child  !  how  is  it  ? 

[  Turning  to  the  DUCHESS. 
Is  she  coming  to  herself  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Her  eyes  are  opening 

COUNTESS. 
She  lives ! 

THEKLA  (looking  around  her). 

Where  am  I? 

WALLENSTEIN  (steps  to  her,  raising  her  up  in  his  arms). 

Come,  cheerly,  Thekla  !  be  my  own  brave  girl  1 
See,  there's  thy  loving  mother.     Thou  art  in 
Thy  father's  arms. 

THEKLA  (standing  up). 

Where  is  he  ?    Is  he  gone  ? 

DUCHESS. 
Who  gone,  my  daughter  ? 

THEKLA. 

He  —  the  man  who  uttered 
That  word  of  misery. 

DUCHESS. 

Oh,  think  not  of  it ! 
My  Thekla! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Give  her  sorrow  leave  to  talk ! 
Let  her  complain  — mingle  your  tears  with  hers, 
For  she  hath  suffered  a  deep  anguish  ;  but 
She'll  rise  superior  to  it,  for  my  Thekla 
Hath  all  her  father's  unsubdued  heart. 


404  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  not  ill.     See,  I  have  power  to  stand. 

Why  does  my  mother  weep  ?    Have  I  alarmed  her? 

It  is  gone  by  —  I  recollect  myself. 

[She  casts  her  eyes  round  the  room,  as  seeking  some  one, 
Where  is  he  ?    Please  you,  do  not  hide  him  from  me. 
You  see  I  have  strength  enough  :  now  I  will  hear  him. 

DUCHESS. 

No ;  never  shall  this  messenger  of  evil 
Enter  again  into  thy  presence,  Thekla ! 

THEKLA. 

My  father  — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Dearest  daughter ! 

THEKLA. 

I'm  not  weak. 

Shortly  I  shall  be  quite  myself  again. 
You'll  grant  me  one  request  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Name  it,  my  daughter. 

THEKLA. 

Permit  the  stranger  to  be  called  to  me, 
And  grant  me  leave,  that  by  myself  I  may 
Hear  his  report  and  question  him. 

DUCHESS. 

No,  never  1 
COUNTESS. 
Tis  not  advisable  —  assent  not  to  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hush !     Wherefore  wouldst  thou  speak  with  him,  my 
daughter  ? 

THEKLA. 

Knowing  the  whole,  I  shall  be  more  collected ; 
I  will  not  be  deceived.     My  mother  wishes 
Only  to  spare  me.     I  will  not  be  spared  — 
The  worst  is  said  already :  I  can  hear 
Nothing  of  deeper  anguish ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLEN8TEIN.  405 

COUNTESS  and  DUCHESS. 
Do  it  not. 

THEEXA. 

The  horror  overpowered  me  by  surprise, 

My  heart  betrayed  me  in  the  stranger's  presence : 

He  was  a  witness  of  my  weakness,  yea, 

I  sank  into  his  arms ;  and  that  has  shamed  me. 

I  must  replace  myself  in  his  esteem, 

And  I  must  speak  with  him,  perforce,  that  he, 

The  stranger,  may  not  'think  ungently  of  me. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  see  she  is  in  the  right,  and  am  inclined 

To  grant  her  this  request  of  hers.    Go,  call  him. 

[LADY  NEUBRUNN  goes  to  catt  him. 

DUCHESS. 
But  I,  thy  mother,  will  be  present 

THEKLA. 

'Twere 

More  pleasing  to  me  if  alone  I  saw  him ; 
Trust  me,  I  shall  behave  myself  the  more 
Collectedly. 

WALLENSTEUf. 

Permit  her  her  own  will. 

Leave  her  alone  with  him  :  for  there  are  sorrows, 
Where  of  necessity  the  soul  must  be 
Its  own  support.    A  strong  heart  will  rely 
On  its  own  strength  alone.     In  her  own  bosom, 
Not  in  her  mother's  arms,  must  she  collect 
The  strength  to  rise  superior  to  this  blow. 
It  is  mine  own  brave  girl.     I'll  have  her  treated 
Not  as  the  woman,  but  the  heroine.  [  Going. 

COUNTESS  (detaining  him). 

Where  art  thou  going  ?    I  heard  Terzky  say 
That  'tis  thy  purpose  to  depart  from  hence 
To-morrow  early,  but  to  leave  us  here. 


406  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  ye  stay  here,  placed  under  the  protection 
Of  gallant  men. 

COUNTESS. 

Oh,  take  us  with  you,  brother. 
Leave  us  not  in  this  gloomy  solitude. 
To  brood  o'er  anxious  thoughts.     The  mists  of  doubt 
Magnify  evils  to  a  shape  of  horror. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  speaks  of  evil  ?    I  entreat  you,  sister, 
Use  words  of  better  omen. 

COUNTESS. 

Then  take  us  with  you. 
Oh  leave  us  not  behind  you  in  a  place 
That  forces  us  to  such  sad  omens.     Heavy 

And  sick  within  me  is  my  heart 

These  walls  breathe  on  me  like  a  churchyard  vault. 
I  cannot  tell  you,  brother,  how  this  place 
Doth  go  against  my  nature.     Take  us  with  you. 
Come,  sister,  join  you  your  entreaty  !     Niece, 
Yours  too.     We  all  entreat  you,  take  us  with  you ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  place's  evil  omens  will  I  change, 

Making  it  that  which  shields  and  shelters  for  me 

My  best  beloved. 

LADY  NEUBRUNN  (returning). 
The  Swedish  officer. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Leave  her  alone  with  me. 

DUCHESS  (to  THEKLA,  who  starts  and  shivers). 
There  —  pale  as  death  !     Child,  'tis  impossible 
That  thou  shouldst  speak  with  him.    Follow  thy  mother. 

THEKLA. 

The  Lady  Neubrunn  then  may  stay  with  me. 

[Exeunt  DUCHESS  and  COUNTESS. 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  407 

SCENE  X. 
THEKLA,  THE  SWEDISH  CAPTAIN,  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

CAPTAIN  (respectfully  approaching  her). 
Princess  —  I  must  entreat  your  gentle  pardon  — 
My  inconsiderate  rash  speech.     How  could  I  — — 

THEKLA  (with  dignity). 

You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony.    • 
A  most  distressful  accident  occasioned 
You  from  a  stranger  to  become  at  once 
My  confidant. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  fear  you  hate  my  presence, 
For  my  tongue  spake  a  melancholy  word. 

THEKLA. 

The  fault  is  mine.     Myself  did  wrest  it  from  you. 
The  horror  which  came  o'er  me  interrupted 
Your  tale  at  its  commencement.    May  it  please  you, 
Continue  it  to  the  end. 

CAPTAIN. 

Princess,  'twill 
Renew  your  anguish. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  firm, 

I  will  be  firm.    Well  —  how  began  the  engagement  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

We  lay,  expecting  no  attack,  at  Neustadt, 
Intrenched  but  insecurely  in  our  camp, 
When  towards  evening  rose  a  cloud  of  dust 
From  the  wood  thitherward  ;  our  vanguard  fled 
Into  the  camp,  and  sounded  the  alarm. 
Scarce  had  we  mounted  ere  the  Pappenheimers, 
Their  horses  at  full  speed,  broke  through  the  lines, 
And  leaped  the  trenches ;  but  their  heedless  courage 
Had  borne  them  onward  far  before  the  others  — 
The  infantry  were  still  at  distance,  only 


408  THE   DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Pappenheimers  followed  daringly 

Their  daring  leader 

[THEKLA  oetrays  agitation  in  her  gestures.  The  officer 
pauses  till  she  makes  a  sign  to  him  to  proceed. 

CAPTAIN. 

Both  in  van  and  flanks 

With  our  whole  cavalry  we  now  received  them ; 
Back  to  the  trenches  drove  them,  where  the  foot 
Stretched  out  a  solid  ridge  of  pikes  to  meet  them. 
They  neither  could  advance,  nor  yet  retreat ; 
And  as  they  stood  on  every  side  wedged  in, 
The  Rhinegrave  to  their  leader  called  aloud, 
Inviting  a  surrender;  but  their  leader, 

Young  Piccolomini 

[THEKLA,  as  giddy,  grasps  a  chair. 

Known  by  his  plume, 

And  his  long  hair,  gave  signal  for  the  trenches ; 
Himself  leaped  first :  the  regiment  all  plunged  after. 
His  charger,  by  a  halbert  gored,  reared  up, 
Flung  him  with  violence  off,  and  over  him 

The  horses,  now  no  longer  to  be  curbed, 

[THEKLA,  who  has  accompanied  the  last  speech  with  all 
the  marks  of  increasing  agony,  trembles  through 
her  whole  frame  and  is  falling.  The  LADY  NEU- 
BRUNN  runs  to  her,  and  receives  her  in  her  arms. 

NEUBRUNN. 

My  dearest  lady 

CAPTAIN. 

I  retire. 

THEKLA. 

'Tis  over. 
Proceed  to  the  conclusion. 

CAPTAIN. 

Wild  despair 

Inspired  the  troops  with  frenzy  when  they  saw 
Their  leader  perish  ;  every  thought  of  rescue 
Was  spurned ;  they  fought  like  wounded  tigers ;  their 
Frantic  resistance  roused  our  soldiery  j 


THE    DEATH    OF   W  ALLEN  STEIN.  409 

A  murderous  fight  took  place,  nor  was  the  contest 
Finished  before  their  last  man  fell. 

THEKLA  {faltering). 

And  where  — 
Where  is  —  you  have  not  told  me  all. 

CAPTAIN  (after  a  pause). 

This  morning 

We  buried  him.     Twelve  youths  of  noblest  birth 
Did  bear  him  to  interment ;  the  whole  army 
Followed  the  bier.     A  laurel  decked  his  coffin ; 
The  sword  of  the  deceased  was  placed  upon  it, 
In  mark  of  honor  by  the  Rhinegrave's  self, 
Nor  tears  were  wanting ;  for  there  are  among  us 
Many,  who  had  themselves  experienced 
The  greatness  of  his  mind  and  gentle  manners ; 
All  were  affected  at  his  fate.     The  Rhinegrave 
Would  willingly  have  saved  him  ;  but  himself 
Made  vain  the  attempt  —  'tis  said  he  wished  to  die. 

NETJBRUXN  (to  THEKLA,  who  has  hidden  her  countenance) 
Look  up,  my  dearest  lady 

THEKLA. 

Where  is  his  grave  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

At  Neustadt,  lady  ;  in  a  cloister  church 

Are  his  remains  deposited,  until 

We  can  receive  directions  from  his  father. 

THEKLA. 

What  is  the  cloister's  name  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Saint  Catherine's. 

THEKLA. 

And  how  far  is  it  thither  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Near  twelve  leagues. 

THEKLA. 

And  which  the  way  ? 


410  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

CAPTAIN. 

You  go  by  Tirschenreut 
And  Falkenberg,  through  our  advanced  posts. 

THEKLA 

Who 

Is  their  commander  ? 

CAPTAIN. 
Colonel  Seckendorf. 

[THEKLA  steps  to  the  table,  and  takes  a  ring  from  a 
casket. 

THEKLA. 

You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony, 

And  shown  a  feeling  heart.    I*lease  you,  accept 

[  Giving  him  the  ring. 
A  small  memorial  of  this  hour.    Now  go! 

CAPTAIN  (confusedly). 
Princess 

[THEKLA  silently  makes  signs  to  him  to  go,  and  turns 
from  him.  The  captain  lingers,  and  is  about  to 
speak.  LADY  NEUBRUNN  repeats  the  signal,  and 
he  retires. 

SCENE  XL 
THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN. 

THEKLA    (falls  On  LADY  NEUBRUNN*S  neck). 

Now  gentle  Neubrunn,  show  me  the  affection 
Which  thou  hast  ever  promised — prove  thyself 
My  own  true  friend  and  faithful  fellow-pilgrim. 
This  night  we  must  away  ! 

NEUBRUNN. 

Away!  and  whither? 

THEKLA. 

Whither!     There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world. 
Thither,  where  he  lies  buried  !     To  his  coffin! 

NEUBRUNN. 

What  would  you  do  there? 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  411 

THEKLA. 

What  do  there  ? 

That  wouldst  thou  not  have  asked,  hadst  thou  e'er  loved 
There,  that  is  all  that  still  remains  of  him ! 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me. 

NEUBRUNN. 

That  place  of  death  

THEKLA. 

Is  now  the  only  place 

Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me  :  detain  me  not ! 
Come  and  make  preparations ;  let  us  think 
Of  means  to  fly  from  hence. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Your  father's  rage 

THEKLA. 

That  time  is  past 

And  now  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage. 

NEUBRUNN. 

The  sentence  of  the  world  !     The  tongue  of  calumny ! 

THEKLA. 

Whom  am  I  seeking  ?     Him  who  is  no  more. 

Am  I  then  hastening  to  the  arms O  God  ! 

I  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  the  beloved. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And  we  alone,  two  helpless,  feeble  women  ? 

THEKLA. 

We  will  take  weapons :  my  arm  shall  protect  thee. 

NEUBRUNN. 

In  the  dark  night-time  ? 

THEKLA. 

Darkness  will  conceal  as. 

NEUBRUNN. 

This  rough  tempestuous  night 


412  THE   DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

THEKLA. 

Had  he  a  soft  bed 
Under  the  hoots  of  his  war-horses  ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

Heaven  1 
And  then  the  many  posts  of  the  enemy  ! 

THEKLA. 

They  are  human  beings.     Misery  travels  free 
Through  the  whole  earth. 

NEUBRUNN. 

The  journey's  weary  length- 

THEKLA. 

The  pilgrim,  travelling  to  a  distant  shrine 

Of  hope  and  healing  doth  not  count  the  leagues. 

NEUBRUNN. 

How  can  we  pass  the  gates  ? 

THEKLA. 

Gold  opens  them. 
Go,  do  but  go. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Should  we  be  recognized 

THEKLA. 

In  a  despairing  woman,  a  poor  fugitive, 

Will  no  one  seek  the  daughter  of  Duke  Friedland. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And  where  procure  we  horses  for  our  flight  ? 

THEKLA. 

My  equerry  procures  them.     Go  and  fetch  him. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Dares  he,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  lord  ? 

THEKLA. 

He  will.    Go,  only  go.     Delay  no  longer. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Dear  lady  !  and  your  mother  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF    W  ALLEN  STEIN.  413 

THEKLA. 

Oh  !  my  mother  I 

NEUBRTJNN. 

So  much  as  she  has  suffered  too  already  ; 
Your  tender  mother.    Ah  !  how  ill  prepared 
For  this  last  anguish  ! 

THEKLA. 

Woe  is  me    my  mothei  ! 

[  Pause* 
Go  instantly. 

NEUBRUNN. 

But  think  what  you  are  doing  I 

THEKLA. 

What  can  be  thought,  already  has  been  thought 

NEUBRUNN. 

And  being  there,  what  purpose  you  to  do? 

THEKLA. 

There  a  divinity  will  prompt  my  soul. 


Your  heart,  dear  lady,  is  disquieted  ! 

And  this  is  not  the  way  that  leads  to  quiet. 

THEKLA. 

To  a  deep  quiet,  such  as  he  has  found, 

It  draws  me  on,  I  know  not  what  to  name  it, 

Resistless  does  it  draw  me  to  his  grave. 

There  will  my  heart  be  eased,  my  tears  will  flow. 

Oh  hasten,  make  no  further  questioning  ! 

There  is  no  rest  for  me  till  I  have  left 

These  walls  —  they  fall  in  on  me  —  a  dim  power 

Drives  me  from  hence  —  oh  mercy  I     What  a  feeling! 

What  pale  and  hollow  forms  are  those  !     They  fill, 

They  crowd  the  place  !  I  have  no  longer  room  here  ! 

Mercy  !    Still  more  !   More  still  !    The  hideous  swarm, 

They  press  on  me  ;  they  chase  me  from  these  walls  — 

Those  hollow,  bodiless  forms  of  living  men  ! 


414  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

NEUBRUNN. 

You  frighten  me  so,  lady,  that  no  longer 

I  dare  stay  here  myself.     I  go  and  call 

Rosenberg  instantly.  [Exit  LADY  NEUBBUNN. 

SCENE  XII. 

THEKLA. 

His  spirit  'tis  that  calls  me  :  'tis  the  troop 

Of  his  true  followers,  who  offered  up 

Themselves  to  avenge  his  death  :  and  they  accuse  me 

Of  an  ignoble  loitering  —  they  would  not 

Forsake  their  leader  even  in  his  death  ;  they  died  for  him, 

And  shall  I  live  ? 

For  me  too  was  that  laurel  garland  twined 

That  decks  his  bier.     Life  is  an  empty  casket : 

I  throw  it  from  me.     Oh,  my  only  hope ; 

To  die  beneath  the  hoofs  of  trampling  steeds  — 

That  is  a  lot  of  heroes  upon  earth  ! 

[Exit  THEKLA.* 
(The  Curtain  drops.) 

SCENE  XIII. 
THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBRUNN,  and  ROSENBERG. 

NEUBRUNN. 

He  is  here,  lady,  and  he  will  procure  them. 

THEKLA. 

Wilt  thou  provide  us  horses,  Rosenberg  ? 

ROSENBERG. 

I  will,  my  lady. 

THEKLA. 

And  go  with  us  as  well? 

ROSENBERG. 

To  the  world's  end,  my  lady. 

*  The  soliloquy  of  Thekla  consists  In  the  original  of  slx-and-twenty  lines, 
twenty  of  which  are  in  rhymes  of  irregular  recurrence.  I  thought  it  prudent 
to  abridge  it.  Indeed  the  whole  scene  between  Thekla  and  Lady  Neubrunn 
might,  perhaps,  have  been  omitted  without  injury  to  the  play.  —  C. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  415 

THEKLA. 

But  consider, 
Thou  never  canst  return  unto  the  duke. 

BOSENBEBG. 

I  will  remain  with  thee. 

THEKLA. 

I  will  reward  thee. 

And  will  commend  thee  to  another  master. 
Canst  thou  unseen  conduct  us  from  the  castle? 

EOSENBEBG. 

I  can. 

THEKLA. 

When  can  I  go  ? 

BOSENBEEG. 

This  very  hour. 
But  whither  would  you,  lady  ? 

THEKLA. 

To Tell  him,  Neubrunn, 

NEUBBUNN. 

To  Neustadt. 

EOSENBEBG. 

So ;  I  leave  you  to  get  ready.      [Exit. 

NEUBEUNN. 

Oh,  see,  your  mother  comes. 

THEKLA. 

Indeed !    O  Heaven  t 

-      SCENE  XIV. 
THEKLA,  LADY  NEUBEUNN,  the  DUCHESS. 

DUCHESS. 
He's  gone !     I  find  thee  more  composed,  my  child. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  so,  mother ;  let  me  only  now 

Retire  to  rest,  and  Neubrunu  here  be  with  me. 

I  want  repose. 


416  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

DUCHESS. 

My  Thekla,  thou  shalt  have  it. 
I  leave  thee  now  consoled,  since  I  can  calm 
Thy  father's  heart. 

THEKLA. 

Good  night,  beloved  mother ! 
{Falling  on  her  neck  and  embracing  her  with  deep 
emotion). 
DUCHESS. 

Thou  scarcely  art  composed  e'en  now,  my  daughter. 
Thou  tremblest  strongly,  and  I  feel  thy  heart 
Beat  audibly  on  mine. 

THEKLA. 

Sleep  will  appease 

Its  beating:  now  good- night,  good-night,  dear  mothei 

(As  she  withdraws  from  her  mother's  arms  the 

curtain  falls). 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

Butler's  Chamber. 
BUTLER,  and  MAJOR  GERALDIN. 

BUTLER. 
Find  me  twelve  strong  dragoons,  arm  them  with  pikes 


For  there  must  be  no  firing 

Conceal  them  somewhere  near  the  banquet-room, 

And  soon  as  the  dessert  is  served  up,  rush  all  in 

And  cry  —  "  Who  is  loyal  to  the  emperor?" 

I  will  overturn  the  table  —  while  you  attack 

Illo  and  Terzky,  and  despatch  them  both. 

The  castle-palace  is  well  barred  and  guarded, 

That  no  intelligence  of  this  proceeding 

May  make  its  way  to  the  duke.     Go  instantly ; 

Have  you  yet  sent  for  Captain  Devereux 

And  the  Macd/mald  ? 

GERALDIN. 

They'll  be  here  anon. 

[Exit  GERALDIN. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  417 

BUTLEK. 

Here's  no  room  for  delay.    The  citizens 
Declare  for  him — a  dizzy  drunken  spirit 
Possesses  the  whole  town.     They  see  in  the  duke 
A  prince  of  peace,  a  founder  of  new  ages 
And  golden  times.     Arms,  too,  have  been  given  out 
By  the  town-council,  and  a  hundred  citizens 
Have  volunteered  themselves  to  stand  on  guard. 
Despatch !  then,  be  the  word  ;  for  enemies 
Threaten  us  from  without  and  from  within. 

SCENE  II. 
BUTLER,  CAPTAIN  DEVEREUX,  and  MACOONALD. 

MACDONALD. 

Here  we  are,  general. 

DEVEREUX. 

What's  to  be  the  watchword  ? 

BUTLER. 

Long  live  the  emperor ! 

BOTH  (recoiling). 
How? 

BUTLER. 

Live  the  house  of  Austria. 

DEVEREUX. 

Have  we  not  sworn  fidelity  to  Friedland  ? 

MACDONALD. 

Have  we  not  marched  to  this  place  to  protect  him  ? 

BUTLER. 

Protect  a  traitor  and  his  country's  enemy  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Why,  yes !  in  his  name  you  administered 
Our  oath. 

MACDONALD. 

And  followed  him  yourself  to  Egra. 


418  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

BUTLER. 

I  did  it  the  more  surely  to  destroy  him. 

DEVEREUX. 

So,  then ! 

MA.CDONALD. 

An  altered  case ! 

BUTLER  (to  DEVEREUX). 

Thou  wretched  man 
So  easily  leavest  thou  thy  oath  and  colors  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

The  devil!     I  but  followed  your  example; 
If  you  could  prove  a  villain,  why  not  we? 

MACDONALD. 

We've  naught  to  do  with  thinking — that's  your  business. 
You  are  our  general,  and  give  out  the  orders ; 
We  follow  you,  though  the  track  lead  to  hell. 

BUTLER  (appeased). 
Good,  then  !  we  know  each  other. 

MACDONALD. 

I  should  hope  BO. 

DEVEREUX. 

Soldiers  of  fortune  are  we  —  who  bids  most 
He  has  us. 

MACDONALD. 

'Tis  e'en  so ! 

BUTLER. 

Well,  for  the  present 
You  must  remain  honest  and  faithful  soldiers. 

DEVEREUX. 

We  wish  no  other. 

BUTLER. 

Ay,  and  make  your  fortunes. 

MACDONALD. 

That  is  still  better. 

Listen ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN.        419 
BOTH. 

We  attend. 
BUTLER. 

It  is  the  emperor's  will  and  ordinance 

To  seize  the  person  of  the  Prince-Duke  Friedland 

Alive  or  dead. 

DEVEREUX. 
It  runs  so  in  the  letter. 

MACDONALD. 

Alive  or  dead  —  these  were  the  very  words. 

BUTLER. 

And  he  shall  be  rewarded  from  the  state 
In  land  and  gold  who  proffers  aid  thereto. 

DEVEREUX. 

Ay !  that  sounds  well.     The  words  sound  always  well 
That  travel  hither  from  the  court.     Yes !  yes  J 
We  know  already  what  court-words  import. 
A  golden  chain  perhaps  in  sign  of  favor, 
Or  an  old  charger,  or  a  parchment-patent, 
And  such  like.    The  prince-duke  pays  better. 

MACDONALD. 

Yes, 
The  duke's  a  splendid  paymaster. 

BUTLER. 

All  over 
With  that,  my  friends !     His  lucky  stars  are  set. 

MACDONALD. 

And  is  that  certain  ? 

BUTLER. 

You  have  my  word  for  it* 

DEVEREUX. 

His  lucky  fortune's  all  passed  by? 

BUTLER. 

Forever. 
He  is  as  poor  as  we. 


420  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

MACDONALD. 

As  poor  as  we  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Macdonald,  we'll  desert  him. 

BUTLER. 

We'll  desert  him  ? 

Full  twenty  thousand  have  done  that  already ; 
We  must  do  more,  my  countrymen  !     In  short  — 
We  —  we  must  kill  him. 

BOTH  (starting  back) 
Kill  him! 

BUTLER. 

Yes,  must  kill  him; 
And  for  that  purpose  have  I  chosen  you. 

BOTH. 

Us! 

BUTLER. 

You,  Captain  Devereux,  and  thee,  Macdonald. 

DE  VE  RE  ux  (after  a  pause) . 
Choose  you  some  other. 

BUTLER. 

What!  art  dastardly ? 
Thou,  with  full  thirty  lives  to  answer  for  — 
Thou  conscientious  of  a  sudden  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay 
To  assassinate  our  lord  and  general 

MACDONALD. 

To  whom  we  swore  a  soldier's  oath         - 

BUTLER. 

The  oath 
Is  null,  for  Friedland  is  a  traitor. 

DEVEREUX. 
No,  no !  it  is  too  bad ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTELN.  421 

MACDONALD. 

Yes,  by  my  soul ! 
It  is  too  bad.     One  has  a  conscience  too       - 

DEVEREUX. 

If  it  were  not  our  chieftain,  who  so  long 

Has  issued  the  commands,  and  claimed  our  duty 

BUTLEE. 
Is  that  the  objection? 

DEVEREUX. 

Were  it  my  own  father, 

And  the  emperor's  service  should  demand  it  of  me, 
It  might  be  done  perhaps  —  but  we  are  soldiers, 
And  to  assassinate  our  chief  commander, 
That  is  a  sin,  a  foul  abomination, 
From  which  no  monk  or  confessor  absolves  us. 

BUTLER. 

I  am  your  pope,  and  give  you  absolution. 
Determine  quickly ! 

DEVEREUX. 

'Twill  not  do. 

MACDONALD. 

'Twont  do! 

BUTLER. 

Well,  off  then !  and  —  send  Pestalutz  to  me. 

DEVEREUX  (hesitates). 
The  Pestalutz 

MACDONALD. 

What  may  you  want  with  him  ? 

BUTLER. 

If  you  reject  it,  we  can  find  enough  — — 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay,  if  he  must  fall,  we  may  earn  the  bounty 
As  well  as  any  other.  "  What  think  you, 
Brother  Macdonald  ? 


422  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

MACDONALD. 

Why,  if  he  must  fall, 
And  will  fall,  and  it  can't  be  otherwise, 
One  would  not  give  place  to  this  Pestalutz. 

DBVEKEUX  (  after  some  reflection). 
When  do  you  purpose  he  should  fall  ? 

BUTLER. 

This  night, 
To-morrow  will  the  Swedes  be  at  our  gates. 

DEVEREUX. 

You  take  upon  you  all  the  consequences  ? 

BUTLER. 

I  take  the  whole  upon  me. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  it  is 

The  emperor's  will,  his  express  absolute  will  ? 
For  we  have  instances  that  folks  may  like 
The  murder,  and  yet  hang  the  murderer. 

BUTLER. 

The  manifesto  says  —  "  alive  or  dead. " 
Alive  —  'tis  not  possible  —  you  see  it  is  not. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well,  dead  then  !  dead  !  But  how  can  we  come  at  him. 
The  town  is  filled  with  Terzky's  soldiery. 

MACDONALD. 

Ay  I  and  then  Terzky  still  remains,  and  Illo 

BUTLER. 

With  these  you  shall  begin  —  you  understand  me? 

DEVEREUX. 

How !    And  must  they  too  perish  ? 

BUTLER. 

They  the  first. 
MACDOXALD; 
Hear,  Devereux !    A  bloody  evening  this. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  423 

DEVEREUX. 

Have  you  a  man  for  that  ?    Commission  me  — — 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  given  in  trust  to  Major  Geraldin  ; 

This  is  a  carnival  night,  and  there's  a  feast 

Given  at  the  castle  —  there  we  shall  surprise  them, 

And  hew  them  down.     The  Pestalutz  and  Lesley 

Have  that  commission.     Soon  as  that  is  finished 

DEVEREUX. 

Hear,  general !     It  will  be  all  one  to  you  — 
Hark  ye,  let  me  exchange  with  Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 
'Twill  be  the  lesser  danger  with  the  duke. 

DEVEREUX. 

Danger !    The  devil !    What  do  you  think  me,  general, 
'Tis  the  duke's  eye,  and  not  his  sword,  I  fear. 

BUTLER. 
What  can  his  eye  do  to  thee  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Death  and  hell! 

Thou  knowest  that  I'm  no  milksop,  general ! 
But  'tis  not  eight  days  since  the  duke  did  send  me 
Twenty  gold  pieces  for  this  good  warm  coat 
Which  I  have  on  !  and  then  for  him  to  see  me 
Standing  before  him  with  the  pike,  his  murderer. 
That  eye  of  his  looking  upon  this  coat  — 
Why  —  why  —  the  devil  fetch  me  !    I'm  no  milksop ! 

BUTLER. 

The  duke  presented  thee  this  good  warm  coat. 
And  thou,  a  needy  wight,  hast  pangs  of  conscience 
To  run  him  through  the  body  in  return, 
A  coat  that  is  far  better  and  far  warmer 
Did  the"  emperor  give  to  him,  the  prince's  mantle. 
How  doth  he  thank  the  emperor  ?    With  revolt 
And  treason. 


424  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

DEVEEEUX. 

That  is  true.    The  devil  take 
Such  thankers !    I'll  despatch  him. 

BUTLER. 

And  would'st  quiet 

Thy  conscience,  thou  hast  naught  to  do  but  simply 
Pull  off  the  coat ;  so  canst  thou  do  the  deed 
With  light  heart  and  good  spirits. 

DEVEREUX. 

You  are  right, 

That  did  not  strike  me.     I'll  pull  off  the  coat  — 
So  there's  an  end  of  it. 

MACDONALD. 

Yes,  but  there's  another 
Point  to  be  thought  of. 

BUTLEK. 

And  what's  that,  Macdonald  ? 

MACDONALD. 

What  avails  sword  or  dagger  against  him  ? 
He  is  not  to  be  wounded  —  he  is 

BUTLER  (starting  up). 

What! 

MACDONALD. 

Safe  against  shot,  and  stab,  and  flash !    Hard  frozen. 
Secured  and  warranted  by  the  black  art ! 
His  body  is  impenetrable,  I  tell  you. 

DEVEREUX. 

In  Ingolstadt  there  was  just  such  another : 
His  whole  skin  was  the  same  as  steel;  at  last 
We  were  obliged  to  beat  him  down  with  gunstocks. 

MACDONALD. 

Hear  what  I'll  do. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well. 

MACDONALD. 

In  the  cloister  here 
There's  a  Dominican,  my  countryman. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  425 

I'll  make  him  dip  my  sword  and  pike  for  me 
In  holy  water,  and  say  over  them 
One  of  his  strongest  blessings.     That's  probatum! 
Nothing  can  stand  'gainst  that. 

BUTLER. 

So  do,  Macdonald ! 

But  now  go  and  select  from  out  the  regiment 
Twenty  or  thirty  able-bodied  fellows, 
And  let  them  take  the  oaths  to  the  emperor. 
Then  when  it  strikes  eleven,  when  the  first  rounds 
Are  passed,  conduct  them  silently  as  may  be 
To  the  house.     I  will  myself  be  not  far  off. 

DEVEREUX. 

But  how  do  we  get  through  Hartschier  and  Gordon, 
That  stand  on  guard  there  in  the  inner  chamber? 

BUTLER. 

I  have  made  myself  acquainted  with  Uie  place, 
I  lead  you  through  a  back  door  that's  defended 
By  one  man  only.     Me  my  rank  and  office 
Give  access  to  the  duke  at  every  hour. 
I'll  go  before  you  — with  one  poinard-stroke 
Cut  Hartschier's  windpipe,  and  make  way  for  you. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  when  we  are  there,  by  what  means  shall  we  gain 
The  duke's  bed-chamber,  without  his  alarming 
The  servants  of  the  court  ?  for  he  has  here 
A  numerous  company  of  followers. 

BUTLER. 

The  attendants  fills  the  right  wing :  he  hates  bustle, 
And  lodges  in  the  left  wing  quite  alone. 

DEVEREUX. 

Were  it  well  over  —  hey,  Macdonald  !    I 
Feel  queerly  on  the  occasion,  devil  knows. 

MACDONALD. 

And  I,  too.     'Tis  too  great  a  personage. 
People  will  hold  us  for  a  brace  of  villains. 


426  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

BUTLER. 

In  plenty,  honor,  splendor  —  you  may  safely 
Laugh  at  the  people's  babble. 

DEVEREUX. 

If  the  business 
Squares  with  one's  honor  —  if  that  be  quite  certain. 

BUTLER. 

Set  your  hearts  quite  at  ease.     Ye  save  for  Ferdinand 
His  crown  and  empire.     The  reward  can  be 
No  small  one. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  'tis  his  purpose  to  dethrone  the  emperor? 

BUTLER. 

Yes !    Yes !  to  rob  him  of  his  crown  and  life. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  must  he  fall  by  the  executioner's  hands, 
Should  we  deliver  him  up  to  the  emperor 
Alive  ? 

BUTLER. 
It  were  his  certain  destiny. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well !   Well !    Come  then,  Macdonald,  he  shall  not 
Lie  long  in  pain. 

\_Exeunt  BUTLER  through  one  door,  MACDONALD 
and  DEVEREUX  through  the  other. 

SCENE  III. 

A  saloon,  terminated  by  a  gallery,  which  extends  far  into 
the  background. 

WALLENSTIN  sitting  at  a  table.     The  SWEDISH  CAPTAIN 
standing  before  him. 

WALLENSTKIN. 

Commend  me  to  your  lord.     I  sympathize 
In  his  good  fortune ;  and  if  you  have  seen  me 
Deficient  in  the  expressions  of  that  joy, 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  427 

Which  such  a  victory  might  well  demand, 

Attribute  it  to  no  lack  of  good-will, 

For  henceforth  are  our  fortunes  one.     Farewell, 

And  for  your  trouble  take  my  thanks.     To-morrow 

The  citadel  shall  be  surrendered  to  you 

On  your  arrival. 

[The  SWEDISH  CAPTAIN  retires.  WALLENSTEIN 
sits  lost  in  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  vacantly,  and 
his  head  sustained  by  his  hand.  The  COUNT- 
ESS TERZKY  enters,  stands  before  him  for  awhile, 
unobserved  by  him;  at  length  he  starts,  sees  her 
and  recollects  himself. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Comest  thou  from  her  ?    Is  she  restored  ?    How  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

My  sister  tells  me  she  was  more  collected 
After  her  conversation  with  the  Swede. 
She  has  now  retired  to  rest. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  pang  will  soften 
She  will  shed  tears. 

COUNTESS. 

I  find  thee  altered,  too, 
My  brother !     After  such  a  victory 
I  had  expected  to  have  found  in  thee 
A  cheerful  spirit.     Oh,  remain  thou  firm ! 
Sustain,  uphold  us  !     For  our  light  thou  art, 
Our  sun. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Be  quiet.    I  ail  nothing.     Where's 
Thy  husband  ? 

COUNTESS. 

At  a  banquet  —  he  and  Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN  (rises  and  strides  across  the  saloon). 
The  night's  far  spent.     Betake  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

COUNTESS. 

Bid  me  not  go,  oh,  let  me  stay  with  thee  ! 


428  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIX. 

WALLENSTEIN  (moves  to  the  icindow). 
There  is  a  busy  motion  in  the  heaven, 
The  wind  doth  chase  the  flag  upon  the  tower, 
Fast  sweep  the  clouds,  the  sickle  *  of  the  moon, 
Struggling,  darts  snatches  of  uncertain  light. 
No  form  of  star  is  visible !     That  one 
White  stain  of  light,  that  single  glimmering  yonder, 
Is  from  Cassiopeia,  and  therein 
Is  Jupiter.     (A  pause.)     But  now 
The  blackness  of  the  troubled  element  hides  him ! 

[_He  sinks  into  profound  melancholy,  and  looks 

vacantly  into  the  distance. 

COUNTESS  (looks  on  him  mournfully,  then  grasps 

his  hand). 
What  art  thou  brooding  on  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Methinks 

If  I  but  saw  him,  'twould  be  well  with  me. 
He  is  the  star  of  my  nativity, 
And  often  marvellously  hath  his  aspect 
Shot  strength  into  my  heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Thou'lt  see  him  again. 

WALLENSTEIN  (remains  / or  awhile  with  absent  mind,  then 
assumes  a  livelier  manner,  and  turning  suddenly  to  the 
COUNTESS). 
See  him  again  ?    Oh,  never,  never  again ! 

*  These  four  lines  are  expressed  in  the  original  with  exquisite  felicity  :  — 

Am  Himmel  ist  geschaftige  Bewegung. 

Des  Thurmes  Fahne  jagt  der  Wind,  schnell  geht 

Der  Wolken  Zug,  die  Mondessichel  wankt. 

Und  durch  die  Nacht  zuckt  ungewisse  Helle. 

The  word  "  moon-sickle,"  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  Harris,  as  quoted  by 
Johnson,  under  the  word  "falcated."  "  The  enlightened  part  of  the  moon  ap- 
pears in  the  form  of  a  sickle  or  reaping-hook,  which  is  while  she  is  moving  from 
the  conjunction  to  the  opposition,  or  from  the  new  moon  to  the  full:  but  from 
full  to  a  new  again  the  enlightened  part  appears  gibbous,  and  the  dark/«J- 
cated." 

The  words  "wanketi"  and  "  schweben  "  are  not  easily  translated.  The 
English  words,  by  which  we  attempt  to  render  them,  are  either  vulgar  or 
pedantic,  or  not  of  sufficiently  general  application.  So  "  der  Wolken  Zug  "  — 
The  Draft,  the  Procession  of  Clouds.  The  Masses  of  the, Clouds  sweep  onward 
in  swift  stream. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  429 

COUNTESS. 

How? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  is  gone  —  is  dust. 

COUNTESS. 

Whom  meanest  thou,  then! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He,  the  more  fortunate !  yea,  he  hath  finished ! 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  future, 

His  life  is  bright  —  bright  without  spot  it  was, 

And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 

Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap, 

Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear ; 

No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 

Of  the  unsteady  planets.     Oh,  'tis  well 

With  him  !  but  who  knows  what  the  coming  hour 

Veiled  in  thick  darkness  brings  us  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  speakest 

Of  Piccolomini.     What  was  his  death  ? 
The  courier  had  just  left  thee  as  I  came. 

[WALLENSTEIN  by  a  motion  of  his  hand  makes  signt 

to  her  to  be  silent. 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  upon  the  backward  view, 
Let  us  look  forward  into  sunny  days, 
Welcome  with  joyous  heart  the  victory, 
Forget  what  it  has  cost  thee.     Not  to-day, 
For  the  first  time,  thy  friend  was  to  thee  dead ; 
To  thee  he  died  when  first  he  parted  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,*  I  know; 

What  pang  is  permanent  with  man  ?    From  the  highest, 

As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day, 

*  A  very  inadequate  translation  of  the  original :  — 

Verschmerzen  werd'  ich  diesen  Scblag,  das  weiss  ich, 
Denn  was  verschmerzte  nicht  der  Mensch ! 

LITERALLY. 

I  shah  grieve  flown  this  blow,  of  that  I'm  conscious : 
What  does  not  man  grieve  down  ? 


430  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEErf. 

He  learns  to  wean  himself :  for  the  strong  hours 
Conquer  him.    Yet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 
In  him.    The  bloom  is  vanished  from  my  life, 
For  oh,  he  stood  beside  me,  like  my  youth, 
Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn, 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toils, 
The  beautiful  is  vanished  —  and  returns  not. 

COUNTESS. 

Oh,  be  not  treacherous  to  thy  own  power. 
Thy  heart  is  rich  enough  to  vivify 
Itself.     Thou  lovest  and  prizest  virtues  in  him, 
The  which  thyself  didst  plant,  thyself  unfold. 

WALLENSTEIN  (stepping  to  the  door). 

Who  interrupts  us  now  at  this  late  hour? 

It  is  the  governor.     He  brings  the  keys 

Of  the  citadel.    'Tis  midnight.     Leave  me,  sister ! 

COUNTESS. 

Oh,  'tis  so  hard  to  me  this  night  to  leave  thee ; 
A  boding  fear  possesses  me ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fear !    Wherefore  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Shouldst  thou  depart  this  night,  and  we  at  waking 
Never  more  find  thee ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fancies ! 

COUNTESS. 

Oh,  my  soul 

Has  long  been  weighed  down  by  these  dark  forebodings, 
And  if  I  combat  and  repel  them  waking, 
They  still  crush  down  upon  my  heart  in  dreams, 
I  saw  thee,  yesternight  with  thy  first  wife 
Sit  at  a  banquet,  gorgeously  attired. 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  431 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This  was  a  dream  of  favorable  omen, 

That  marriage  being  the  founder  of  my  fortunes. 

COUNTESS. 

To-day  I  dreamed  that  I  was  seeking  thee 
In  thy  own  chamber.     As  I  entered,  lo ! 
It  was  no  more  a  chamber :  the  Chartreuse 
At  Gitschin  'twas,  which  thou  thyself  hast  founded, 
And  where  it  is  thy  will  that  thou  shouldst  be 
Interred. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thy  soul  is  busy  with  these  thoughts. 

COUNTESS. 

What !  dost  thou  not  believe  that  oft  in  dreams 
A  voice  of  warning  speaks  prophetic  to  us  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  there  exist  such  voices, 

Yet  I  would  not  call  them 

Voices  of  warning  that  announce  to  us 

Only  the  inevitable.     As  the  sun, 

Ere  it  is  risen,  sometimes  paints  its  image 

In  the  atmosphere,  so  often  do  the  spirits 

Of  great  events  stride  on  before  the  events, 

And  in  to-day  already  walks  to-morrow. 

That  which  we  read  of  the  fourth  Henry's  death 

Did  ever  vex  and  haunt  me  like  a  tale 

Of  my  own  future  destiny.     The  king 

Felt  in  his  breast  the  phantom  of  the  knif« 

Long  ere  Ravaillac  armed  himself  therewith. 

His  quiet  mind  forsook  him  ;  the  phantasma 

Started  him  in  his  Louvre,  chased  him  forth 

Into  the  open  air ;  like  funeral  knells 

Sounded  that  coronation  festival ; 

And  still  with  boding  sense  he  heard  the  tread 

Of  those  feet  that  even  then  were  seeking  him 

Throughout  the  streets  of  Paris. 

COUNTESS. 

And  to  thee 
The  voice  within  thy  soul  bodes  nothing? 


432  THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Nothing. 
Be  wholly  tranquil. 

COUNTESS. 
And  another  time 

I  hastened  after  thee,  and  thou  rann'st  from  me 
Through  a  long  suite,  through  many  a  spacious  hall. 
There  seemed  no  end  of  it ;  doors  creaked  and  clapped ; 
I  followed  panting,  but  could  not  overtake  thee ; 
When  on  a  sudden  did  I  feel  myself 
Grasped  from  behind,  —  the  hand  was  cold  that  grasped 

me ; 

'Twas  thou,  and  thou  didst  kiss  me,  and  there  seemed 
A  crimson  covering  to  envelop  us. 

W ALLEN STEIN. 

That  is  the  crimson  tapestry  of  my  chamber. 

COUNTESS  (gazing  on  him). 
If  it  should  come  to  that  —  if  I  should  see  thee, 
Who  standest  now  before  me  in  the  fulness 
Of  life [She  falls  on  his  breast  and  weeps. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  emperor's  proclamation  weighs  upon  thee  — 
Alphabets  wound  not  —  and  he  finds  no  hands. 

COUNTESS. 

If  he  should  find  them,  my  resolve  is  taken  — 
I  bear  about  me  my  support  and  refuge. 

[Exit  COUNTESS, 

SCENE  V. 
WALLENSTEIN,  GORDON. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
All  quiet  in  the  town  ? 

GORDON. 

The  town  is  quiet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  hear  a  boisterous  music !  and  the  castle 
Is  lighted  up.     Who  are  the  revellers  ? 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  433 

GORDON. 

There  is  a  banquet  given  -at  the  castle 

To  the  Count  Terzky  and  Field-Marshal  Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  honor  of  the  victory  —  this  tribe 

Can  show  their  joy  in  nothing  else  but  feasting. 

[Rings.     The  GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  enters. 
Unrobe  me.     I  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep. 

[WALLENSTEIN  takes  the  keys  from  GORDON. 
So  we  are  guarded  from  all  enemies, 
And  shut  in  with  sure  friends. 
For  all  must  cheat  me,  or  a  face  like  this 

[Fixing  his  eyes  on  GORDON. 
Was  ne'er  a  hypocrite's  mask. 
[  The  GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  takes  off  his  mantle, 
collar,  and  scarf. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Take  care  —  what  is  that  ? 

GROOM    OF     THE    CHAMBER. 

The  golden  chain  is  snapped  in  two. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well,  it  has  lasted  long  enough.     Here  —  give  it. 

[He  takes  and  looks  at  the  chain. 

'Twas  the  first  present  of  the  emperor. 

He  hung  it  round  me  in  the  war  of  Friule, 

He  being  then  archduke;  and  I  have  worn  it 

Till  now  from  habit 

From  superstition,  if  you  will.     Belike, 

It  was  to  be  a  talisman  to  me  ; 

And  while  I  wore  it  on  my  neck  in  faith, 

It  was  to  chain  to  me  all  my  life-long 

The  volatile  fortune,  whose  first  pledge  it  was. 

Well,  be  it  so !     Henceforward  a  new  fortune 

Must  spring  up  for  me  ;  for  the  potency 

Of  this  charm  is  dissolved. 

[GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  retires  with  the  vest- 
ments. WALLENSTEIN  rises,  takes  a  stride 
across  the  room,  and  stands  at  last  before 
GORDON  in  a  posture  of  meditation. 


4S4  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

How  the  old  time  returns  upon  me !     I 

Behold  myself  once  more  at  Burgau,  where 

We  two  were  pages  of  the  court  together. 

We  oftentimes  disputed  :  thy  intention 

Was  ever  good  ;  but  thou  were  wont  to  play 

The  moralist  and  preacher,  and  wouldst  rail  at  me  — 

That  I  strove  after  things  too  high  for  me, 

Giving  my  faith  to  bold,  unlawful  dreams, 

And  still  extol  to  rne  the  golden  mean. 

Thy  wisdom  hath  been  proved  a  thriftless  friend 

To  thy  own  self.     See,  it  has  made  thee  early 

A  superannuated  man,  and  (but 

That  my  munificent  stars  will  intervene) 

Would  let  thee  in  some  miserable  corner 

Go  out  like  an  untended  lamp. 

GORDON. 

My  prince ! 

With  light  heart  the  poor  fisher  moors  his  boat, 
And  watches  from  the  shore  the  lofty  ship 
Stranded  amid  the  storm. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Art  thou  already 

In  harbor,  then,  old  man  ?    Well !   I  am  not. 
The  unconquered  spirit  drives  me  o'er  life's  billows ; 
My  planks  still  firm,  my  canvas  swelling  proudly. 
Hope  is  my  goddess  still,  and  youth  my  inmate ; 
And  while  we  stand  thus  front  to  front  almost, 
I  might  presume  to  say,  that  the  swift  years 
Have  passed  by  powerless  o'er  ray  unblanched  hair. 
[He  moves  with  long  strides  across  the  saloon,  and 

remains  on    the    opposite    side   over  against 

GORDON. 

Who  now  persists  in  calling  fortune  false  ? 
To  me  she  has  proved  faithful ;  with  fond  love 
Took  me  from  out  the  common  ranks  of  men, 
And  like  a  mother  goddess,  with  strong  arm 
Carried  me  swiftly  up  the  steps  of  life. 
Nothing  is  common  in  my  destiny, 
Nor  in  the  furrows  of  my  hand.    Who  dares 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  435 

Interpret  then  my  life  for  me  as  'twere 
One  of  the  undistinguishable  many? 
True,  ,in  this  present  moment  I  appear 
Fallen  low  indeed ;  but  I  shall  rise  again. 
The  high  flood  will  soon  follow  on  this  ebb ; 
The  fountain  of  my  fortune,  which  now  stops, 
Repressed  and  bound  by  some  malicious  star, 
Will  soon  in  joy  play  forth  from  all  its  pipes. 

GORDON. 

And  yet  remember  I  the  good  old  proverb, 
"  Let  the  night  come  before  we  praise  the  day." 
I  would  be  slow  from  long-continued  fortune 
To  gather  hope :  for  hope  is  the  companion 
Given  to  the  unfortunate  by  pitying  heaven. 
Fear  hovers  round  the  head  of  prosperous  men, 
For  still  unsteady  are  the  scales  of  fate. 

WALLENSTEIN  (smilmff). 

I  hear  the  very  Gordon  that  of  old 

Was  wont  to  preach,  now  once  more  preaching ; 

I  know  well,  that  all  sublunary  things 

Are  still  the  vassels  of  vicissitude. 

The  unpropitious  gods  demand  their  tribute. 

This  long  ago  the  ancient  pagans  knew : 

And  therefore  of  their  own  accord  they  offered 

To  themselves  injuries,  so  to  atone 

The  jealousy  of  their  divinities : 

And  human  sacrifices  bled  to  Typhon. 

(After  a  pause,  serious,  and  in  a  more  subdued  manner. 
I  too  have  sacrificed  to  him — for  me 
There  fell  the  dearest  friend,  and  through  my  fault 
He  fell !     No  joy  from  favorable  fortune 
Can  overweigh  the  anguish  of  this  stroke. 
The  envy  of  my  destiny  is  glutted : 
Life  pays  for  life.     On  his  pure  head  the  lightning 
Was  drawn  off  which  would  else  have  shattered  me. 


436  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  V. 
To  these  enter  SENT. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Is  not  that  Seni !  and  beside  himself, 

If  one  can  trust  his  looks  ?    What  brings  thee  hither 

At  this  late  hour,  Baptista  ? 

SENT. 

Terror,  duke  i 
On  thy  account. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now  ? 

SENI. 

Flee  ere  the  day  break ! 
Trust  not  thy  person  to  the  Swedes ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now 
Is  in  thy  thoughts  ? 

SENT  (with  louder  voice). 
Trust  not  thy  person  to  the  Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it,  then? 
SENI  (still  more  urgently). 
Oh,  wait  not  the  arrival  of  these  Swedes ! 
An  evil  near  at  hand  is  threatening  thee 
From  false  friends.     All  the  signs  stand  full  of  horror! 
Near,  near  at  hand  the  net-work  of  perdition  — 
Yea,  even  now  'tis  being  cast  around  thee  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Baptista,  thou  art  dreaming !  —  fear  befools  thee. 

SENI. 

Believe  not  that  an  empty  fear  deludes  me. 
Come,  read  it  in  the  planetary  aspects ; 
Read  it  thyself,  that  ruin  threatens  thee 
From  false  friends. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  the  falseness  of  my  friends 
Has  risen  the  whole  of  my  unprosperous  fortunes. 


THE    DEATH   OF    W  ALLEN  STEIN.  437 

The  warning  should  have  come  before !    At  present 
I  need  no  revelation  from  the  stars 
To  know  that. 

SENI. 

Come  and  see !  trust  thine  own  eyes. 
A  fearful  sign  stands  in  the  house  of  life  — 
An  enemy ;  a  fiend  lurks  close  behind 
The  radiance  of  thy  planet.     Oh,  be  warned! 
Deliver  not  up  thyself  to  these  heathens, 
To  wage  a  war  against  our  holy  church. 

WALLENSTEIN  (laughing  gently). 
The  oracle  rails  that  way  !     Yes,  yes  !     Now 
I  recollect.     This  junction  with  the  Swedes 
Did  never  please  thee  —  lay  thyself  to  sleep, 
Baptista !     Signs  like  these  I  do  not  fear. 

GORDON  (who  during  the  whole  of  this  dialogue  has  shown 
marks  of  extreme  agitation,  and  now  turns  to  w ALLEN 
STEIN). 

My  duke  and  general !    May  I  dare  presume  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Speak  freely. 

GORDON. 

What  if  'twere  no  mere  creation 
Of  fear,  if  God's  high  providence  vouchsafed 
To  interpose  its  aid  for  your  deliverance, 
And  made  that  mouth  its  organ  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye're  both  feverish ! 

How  can  mishap  come  to  me  from  the  Swedes  ? 
They  sought  this  junction  with  me — 'tis  their  interest. 

GORDON  (with  difficulty  suppressing  his  emotion). 
But  what  if  the  arrival  of  these  Swedes  — 
What  if  this  were  the  very  thing  that  winged 
The  ruin  that  is  flying  to  your  temples  ? 

[Flings  himself  at  his  feet. 
There  is  yet  time,  ray  prince. 

SENI. 

Oh  hear  him !  hear  him  1 


438  THE   DEATH   OF   WALLEXSTEIN. 

GORDON  (rises). 

The  Rhinegrave's  still  far  off.     Give  but  the  orders, 
This  citadel  shall  close  its  gates  upon  him. 
If  then  he  will  besiege  us,  let  him  try  it. 
But  this  I  say  ;  he'll  find  his  own  destruction, 
With  his  whole  force  before  these  ramparts,  sooner 
Than  weary  down  the  valor  of  our  spirit. 
He  shall  experience  what  a  band  of  heroes, 
Inspirited  by  an  heroic  leader, 
Is  able  to  perform.    And  if  indeed 
It  be  thy  serious  wish  to  make  amend 
For  that  which  thou  hast  done  amiss,  —  this,  this 
Will  touch  and  reconcile  the  emperor, 
Who  gladly  turns  his  heart  to  thoughts  of  mercy ; 
And  Friedland,  who  returns  repentant  to  him, 
Will  stand  yet  higher  in  his  emperor's  favor 
Then  e'er  he  stood  when  he  had  never  fallen. 

WALLENSTEIN  (contemplates  him  with  surprise,  remains 
silent  awhile,  betraying  strong  emotion). 

Gordon  —  your  zeal  and  fervor  lead  you  far. 

Well,  well  —  an  old  friend  has  a  privilege. 

Blood,  Gordon,  has  been  flowing.     Never,  never 

Can  the  emperor  pardon  me  :  and  if  he  could, 

Yet  I  —  I  ne'er  could  let  myself  be  pardoned. 

Had  I  foreknown  what  now  has  taken  place, 

That  he,  my  dearest  friend,  would  fall  for  me, 

My  first  death  offering ;  and  had  the  heart 

Spoken  to  me,  as  now  it  has  done  —  Gordon, 

It  may  be,  I  might  have  bethought  myself. 

It  may  be  too,  I  might  not.     Might  or  might  not 

Is  now  an  idle  question.     All  too  seriously 

Has  it  begun  to  end  in  nothing,  Gordon  ! 

Let  it  then  have  its  course.          [/Stepping  to  the  window. 

All  dark  and  silent  —  at  the  castle  too 

All  is  now  hushed.     Light  me,  chamberlain  ? 

[The  GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER,  who  had  entered 
during  the  last  dialogue,  and  had  been  standing 
at  a  distance  and  listening  to  it  with  visible  ex- 
pressions of  the  deepest  interest,  advances  in 
extreme  agitation  and  throtcs  himself  at  the 
'  feet. 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  439 

And  thou  too  !    But  I  know  why  thou  dost  wish 

My  reconcilement  with  the  emperor. 

Poor  man !  he  hath  a  small  estate  in  Carinthia, 

And  fears  it  will  be  forfeited  because 

He's  in  my  service.     Am  I  then  so  poor 

That  I  no  longer  can  indemnify 

My  servants  ?    Well !  to  no  one  I  employ 

Means  of  compulsion.     If  'tis  thy  belief 

That  fortune  has  fled  from  me,  go  !  forsake  me. 

This  night  for  the  last  time  mayst  thou  unrobe  me, 

And  then  go  over  to  the  emperor. 

Gordon,  good-night !  I  think  to  make  a  long 

Sleep  of  it :  for  the  struggle  and  the  turmoil 

Of  this  last  day  or  two  was  great.     May't  please  you  ! 

Take  care  that  they  awake  me  not  too  early. 

[Exit  WALLENSTEIN,  the  GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER 
lighting  him.  SENI  follows,  GORDON  remains 
on  the  darkened  stage,  following  the  DUKE  with 
his  eye,  till  he  disappears  at  the  further  end  of 
the  gallery :  then  by  his  gestures  the  old  man 
expresses  the  depth  of  his  anguish,  and  stands 
leaning  against  a  pillar. 

SCENE  VI. 
GORDON,  BUTLER  (at  first  behind  the  scenes). 

BUTLER  (not  yet  come  into  view  of  the  stage). 
Here  stand  in  silence  till  I  give  the  signal. 

GORDON  (starts  up). 
'Ti*  he  !  he  has  already  brought  the  murderers. 

BUTLER. 
The  lights  are  out.    All  lies  in  profound  sleep. 

GORDON. 

What  shall  I  do,  shall  I  attempt  to  save  him  ? 
Shall  I  call  up  the  house?  alarm  the  guards? 

BUTLER  (appears,  but  scarcely  on  the  stage). 
A  light  gleams  hither  from  the  corridor. 
It  leads  directly  to  the  duke's  bed-chamber. 


440  THE   DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

GORDON. 

But  then  I  break  my  oath  to  the  emperor ; 
If  he  escape  and  strengthen  the  enemy, 
Do  I  not  hereby  call  down  on  my  head 
All  the  dread  consequences. 

BUTLER  {stepping  forward). 

Hark !     Who  speaks  there ' 

GORDON.- 

'Tis  better,  I  resign  it  to  the  hands 
Of  Providence.     For  what  am  I,  that  I 
Should  take  upon  myself  so  great  a  deed  ? 
I  have  not  murdered  him,  if  he  be  murdered  ; 
But  all  his  rescue  were  my  act  and  deed; 
Mine  —  and  whatever  be  the  consequences 
I  must  sustain  them. 

BUTLER  (advances). 

I  should  know  that  voice. 

GORDON. 
Butler! 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  Gordon.     What  do  you  want  here  ? 
Was  it  so  late,  then,  when  the  duke  dismissed  you  ? 

GORDON. 

Your  hand  bound  up  and  in  a  scarf? 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  wounded. 

That  Illo  fought  as  he  were  frantic,  till 
At  last  we  threw  him  on  the  ground. 

GORDON  (shuddering). 

Both  dead? 

BUTLER. 

Is  he  in  bed  ? 

GORDON. 

Ah,  Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

Is  he  ?  speak. 


THE    DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  441 

GORDON. 

He  shall  not  perish  !    Not  through  you !     The  heaven 
Refuses  your  arm.     See  —  'tis  wounded ! 

BUTLER. 
There  is  no  need  of  my  arm. 

GORDON. 

The  most  guilty 
Have  perished,  and  enough  is  given  to  justice. 

[  The  GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  advances  from  the 
gallery  with  his  finger  on  his  mouth  command- 
ing silence. 

GORDON. 
He  sleeps !    Oh,  murder  riot  the  holy  sleep ! 

BUTLER. 

No  !  he  shall  die  awake.  [Is  going. 

GORDON. 

His  heart  still  cleaves 

To  earthly  things  :  he's  not  prepared  to  step 
Into  the  presence  of  his  God ! 

BUTLER  {going). 

God's  merciful ! 

GORDON  (holds  him). 
Grant  him  but  this  night's  respite. 

BUTLER  (hurrying  off). 

The  next  moment 
May  ruin  all. 

GORDON  (holds  him  still). 
One  hour ! 

BUTLER. 

Unhold  me !    What 
Can  that  short  respite  profit  him  ? 

GORDON. 

Oh,  time 

Works  miracles.     In  one  hour  many  thousands 
Of  grains  of  sand  run  out ;  and  quick  as  they 


442  THE    DEATH    OF   WALL  ENSTEIN. 

Thought  follows  thought  within  the  human  soul. 
Only  one  hour !     Your  heart  may  change  its  purpose, 
His  heart  may  change  its  purpose  —  some  new  tidings 
May  come  ;  some  fortunate  event,  decisive, 
May  fall  from  heaven  and  rescue  him.     Oh,  what 
May  not  one  hour  achieve ! 

BUTLEK. 

You  but  remind  me 
How  precious  every  minute  is ! 

[He  stamps  on  the  floor, 

SCENE  VII. 

To  these  enter  MACDONALD   and  DEVEREUX,  with  the 
HALBERDIERS. 

GORDON  (throwing  himself  between  him  and  them). 

No,  monster! 

First  over  my  dead  body  thou  shalt  tread. 
I  will  not  live  to  see  the  accursed  deed  ! 

BUTLER  (forcing  him  out  of  the  way) . 
Weak-hearted  dotard  ! 

[  Trumpets  are  heard  in  the  distance. 

DEVEREUX    and  MACDONALD. 

Hark  !     The  Swedish  trumpets ! 
The  Swedes  before  the  ramparts!     Let  us  hasten! 

GORDON  (rushes  out). 
Oh,  God  of  mercy ! 

BUTLER  (calling  after  him). 
Governor,  to  your  post ! 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  (hurries  in). 
Who  dares  make  larum  here  ?    Hush  !    The  duke  sleeps. 

DEVEREUX  (with  loud,  harsh  voice). 
Friend,  it  is  time  now  to  make  larum. 

GROOM   OF   THE   CHAMBER. 

Help! 
Murder ! 


THE   DEATH   OF   WALLENSTEIN.  443 

BUTLER. 
Down  with  him ! 

GROOM    OF    THE    CHAMBER   (run  through  the  body  by 
DEVEREUX,  falls  at  the  entrance  of  the  gallery.) 

Jesus  Maria ! 

BUTLER. 

Burst  the  doors  open. 

[  They  rush  over  the  body  into  the  gallery  —  two  doors 
are  heard  to  crash  one  after  the  other.  Voices,  dead- 
ened by  the  distance  —  clash  of  amis  —  then  all  at 
once  a  prof  ound  silence. 

SCENE  VIII. 

COUNTESS  TERZKY  (with  a  light). 

Her  bedchamber  is  empty ;  she  herself 

Is  nowhere  to  be  found  !     The  Neubrunn  too, 

Who  watched  by  her,  is  missing,     If  she  should 

Be  flown but  whither  flown  ?    We  must  call  up 

Every  soul  in  the  house.     How  will  the  duke 
Bear  up  against  these  worst  bad  tidings  ?    Oh, 
If  that  my  husband  now  were  but  returned 
Home  from  the  banquet !     Hark !     I  wonder  whether 
The  duke  is  still  awake!     I  thought  I  heard 
Voices  and  tread  of  feet  here !     I  will  go 
And  listen  at  the  door.     Hark !  what  is  that  ? 
'Tis  hastening  up  the  steps ! 

SCENE  IX. 

COUNTESS,  GORDON. 

GORDON  (rushes  in  out  of  breath). 

'Tis  a  mistake ! 

'Tis  not  the  Swedes ;  ye  must  proceed  no  further — 
Butler!     Oh,  God!  where  is  he? 

GORDON  (observing  the  COUNTESS). 

Countess!    Say      - 


444  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

COUNTESS. 

You  are  come  then  from  the  castle  ?  Where's  my  husband  ? 

GORDON  (in  an  agony  of  affright). 
Your  husband !    Ask  not !     To  the  duke 

COUNTESS. 

Not  till 
You  have  discovered  to  me 

GORDON. 

On  this  moment 
Does  the  world  hang.    For  God's  sake !  to  the  duke. 

While  we  are  speaking [Calling  loudly. 

Butler!  Butler!  God! 

COUNTESS. 

Why,  he  is  at  the  castle  with  my  husband. 

[BUTLER  comes  from  the  gallery. 

GORDON. 

'Twas  a  mistake.    'Tis  not  the  Swedes — it  is 
The  imperialists'  lieutenant-general 
Has  sent  me  hither  —  will  be  here  himself 
Instantly.     You  must  not  proceed. 

BUTLER. 

He  comes 
Too  late.        [GORDON  dashes  himself  against  the  watt. 

GORDON. 
Oh,  God  of  mercy ! 

COUNTESS. 

What,  too  late? 

Who  will  be  here  himself?    Octavio 
In  Egra?    Treason!    Treason!    Where's  the  duke ? 

[/She  rushes  to  the  gallery. 

SCENE  X. 

Servants  run  across  the  stage  full  of  terror.     The  whole 
scene  must  be  spoken  entirely  without  pauses. 

SENI  (from  the  gallery). 
Oh,  bloody,  frightful  deed  ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  445 

COTTNTESS. 

What  is  it,  Seni? 
PAGE  (from,  the  gallery"). 

Oh,  piteous  sight ! 

[  Other  servants  hasten  in  with  torches. 

COUNTESS. 

What  is  it?    For  God's  sake ! 

SENI. 

And  do  you  ask? 

Within  the  duke  lies  murdered  —  and  your  husband 
Assassinated  at  the  castle. 

[  The  COUNTESS  stands  motionless. 

FEMALE  SERVANT  (rushing  across  the  stage). 
Help!  help!  the  duchess! 

BURGOMASTER  (enters). 

What  mean  these  confused 
Loud  cries  that  wake  the  sleepers  of  this  house? 

GORDON. 

Your  house  is  cursed  to  all  eternity. 

In  your  house  doth  the  duke  lie  murdered ! 

BURGOMASTER  (rushing  out). 

Heaven  forbid ! 

FIRST    SERVANT. 

Fly !  fly !  they  murder  us  all ! 

SECOND  SERVANT  (carrying  silver-plate). 

That  way !  the  lower 
Passages  are  blocked  up. 

VOICE    (from  behind  the  scene). 

Make  room  for  the  lieutenant-general ! 

[At  these  words  the  COUNTESS  starts  from  her  stupor, 
collects  herself,  and  retires  suddenly. 


446  THE    DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN. 

VOICE  (from  behind  the  scene). 
Keep  back  the  people  1    Guard  the  door  1 

SCENE    XI. 

To  these  enter  OCTAVIO  PICCOLOMINI  with  all  his  train. 
At  the  same  time  DEVEREUX  and  MACDONALD  enter 
from  out  the  corridor  with  the  Halberdiers.  WALLEN 
STEIN'S  dead  body  is  carried  over  the  back  part  of  the 
stage,  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  crimson  tapestry. 

OCTAVIO  (entering  abruptly). 

It  must  not  be  !     It  is  not  possible ! 

Butler !  Gordon ! 

I'll  not  believe  it.     Say  no ! 

[GORDON,  without  answering,  points  with  his  hand  to 
the  body  of  WALLENSTEIN  as  it  is  carried  over  the 
back  of  the  stage.  OCTAVIO  looks  that  way,  and 
stands  overpowered  with  horror. 

DEVEREUX   (tO  BUTLER). 

Here  is  the  golden  fleece  —  the  duke's  sword 

MACDONALD. 

Is  it  your  order 

BUTLER  (pointing  to  OCTAVIO). 

Here  stands  he  who  now 
Hath  the  sole  power  to  issue  orders. 

[DEVEREUX  and  MACDONALD  retire  with  marks  of 
obeisance.  One  drops  away  after  the  other,  till  only 
BUTLER,  OCTAVIO,  and  GORDON  remain  on  the 
stage. 

OCTAVIO  (turning  to  BUTLER). 

Was  that  my  purpose,  Butler,  when  we  parted  ? 
Oh,  God  of  Justice ! 

To  thee  I  lift  my  band !     I  am  not  guilty 
Of  this  foul  deed. 

BUTLER. 

Your  hand  is  pure.    You  have 
Availed  yourself  of  mine. 


THE   DEATH    OF   WALLENSTEIN.  447 

OCTAVIO. 

Merciless  man ! 

Thus  to  abuse  the  orders  of  thy  lord  — 
And  stain  thy  emperor's  holy  name  with  murder, 
With  bloody,  most  accursed  assassination ! 

BUTLER  (calmly). 
I've  but  fulfilled  the  emperor's  own  sentence. 

OCTAVIO. 

Oh,  curse  of  kings, 

Infusing  a  dread  life  into  their  words, 
And  linking  to  the  sudden,  transient  thought 
The  unchanging,  irrevocable  deed. 
Was  there  necessity  for  such  an  eager 
Despatch?     Couldst  thou  not  grant  the  merciful 
A  time  for  mercy?     Time  is  man's  good  angel. 
To  leave  no  interval  between  the  sentence, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  it,  doth  beseem 
God  only,  the  immutable ! 

BUTLER. 

For  what 

Rail  you  against  me  ?    What  is  my  offence  ? 
The  empire  from  a  fearful  enemy 
Have  I  delivered,  and  expect  reward. 
The  single  difference  betwixt  you  and  me 
Is  this :  you  placed  the  arrow  in  the  bow ; 
I  pulled  the  string.     You  sowed  blood,  and  yet  stand 
Astonished  that  blood  is  come  up.     I  always 
Knew  what  I  did,  and  therefore  no  result 
Hath  power  to  frighten  or  surprise  my  spii'it. 
Have  you  aught  else  to.  order;  for  this  instant 
I  make  my  best  speed  to  Vienna ;  place 
My  bleeding  sword  before  my  emperor's  throne, 
And  hope  to  gain  the  applause  which  undelaying 
And  punctual  'obedience  may  demand 
From  a  just  judge.  \Exit  BUTLER. 


448  THE  DEATH   OF  WALLENSTEIN. 

SCENE  XII. 

To  these  enter  the  COUNTESS  TERZKY,jt?afe  and  disordered 
Her  utterance  is  slow  and  feeble,  and  unimpassioned. 

OCTAVIO  {meeting  her). 

Oh,  Countess  Terzky !     These  are  the  results 
Of  luckless,  unblest  deeds. 

COUNTESS. 

They  are  the  fruits 

Of  your  contrivances.     The  duke  is  dead, 
My  husband  too  is  dead,  the  duchess  struggles 
In  the  pangs  of  death,  ray  niece  has  disappeared ; 
This  house  of  splendor,  and  of  princely  glory, 
Doth  now  stand  desolated :  the  affrighted  servants 
Rush  forth  through  all  its  doors.     I  am  the  last 
Therein ;  I  shut  it  up,  and  here  deliver 
The  keys. 

OCTAVIO  (with  a  deep  anguish). 

Oh,  countess  !  my  house,  too,  is  desolate. 

COUNTESS. 

Who  next  is  to  be  murdered  ?     Who  is  next 
To  be  maltreated?    Lo!  the  duke  is  dead. 
The  emperor's  vengeance  may  be  pacified ! 
Spare  the  old  servants  ;  let  not  their  fidelity 
Be  imputed  to  the  faithful  as  a  crime  — 
The  evil  destiny  surprised  my  brother 
Too  suddenly :  he  could  not  think  on  them. 

OCTAVIO. 

Speak  not  of  vengeance  !     Speak  not  of  maltreatment ! 
The  emperor  is  appeased  ;  the  heavy  fault 
Hath  heavily  been  expiated  —  nothing 
Descended  from  the  father  to  the  daughter, 
Except  his  glory  and  his  services. 
The  empress  honors  your  adversity, 
Takes  part  in  your  afflictions,  opens  to  you 
Her  motherly  arms.     Therefore  no  further  fears. 
Yield  yourself  up  in  hope  and  confidence 
To  the  imperial  grace ! 


THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN.  449 

COUNTESS  (with  her  eye  raised  to  heaven) 

To  the  grace  and  mercy  of  a  greater  master 

Do  I  yield  up  myself.     Where  shall  the  body 

Of  the  duke  have  its  place  of  final  rest  ?^ 

In  the  Chartreuse,  which  he  himself  did  found 

At  Gitschin,  rests  the  Countess  Wallenstein ; 

And  by  her  side,  to  whom  he  was  indebted 

For  his  first  fortunes,  gratefully  he  wished 

He  might  sometime  repose  in  death  !     Oh,  let  him 

Be  buried  there.     And  likewise,  for  my  husband's 

Remains  I  ask  the  like  grace.     The  emperor 

Is  now  the  proprieter  of  all  our  castles ; 

This  sure  may  well  be  granted  us  —  one  sepulchre 

Beside  the  sepulchres  of  our  forefathers ! 

OCTAVIO. 
Countess,  you  tremble,  you  turn  pale ! 

COUNTESS   (reassembles  all  her  powers,  and  speaks  with 
energy  and  dignity). 

You  think 

More  worthily  of  me  than  to  believe 
I  would  survive  the  downfall  of  my  house. 
We  did  not  hold  ourselves  too  mean  to  grasp 
After  a  monarch's  crown  —  the  crown  did  fate 
D3ny,  but  not  the  feeling  and  the  spirit 
That  to  the  crown  belong !     We  deem  a 
Courageous  death  more  worthy  of  our  free  station 
Than  a  dishonored  life.    I  have  taken  poison. 

OCTAVIO. 
Help !    Help !    Support  her ! 

COUNTESS. 

Nay,  it  is  too  late. 
In  a  few  moments  is  my  fate  accomplished. 

{Exit  COUNTESS. 
GORDON. 

Oh,  house  of  death  and  horrors ! 

[An  OFFICER  enters,  and  brings  a  letter  with  the  great 
seal.    GORDON  steps  forward  and  meets  him. 


450  THE    DEATH    OF    WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  this ! 
It  is  the  imperial  seal. 

[He  reads  the  address,  and  delivers  the  letter  to  OCTA* 
vio  with  a  look  of  reproach^  and  with  an  emphasis 
on  the  word. 
^o  the  Prince  Piccolomini. 

[OcTAVio,  with  his  whole  frame  expressive  of  sudden 
anguish,  raises  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

Th%  Curtain  drops. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  048  947     6 


